Frontline

by Alexandra Richland

  “Yes, she’s an attractive young woman. That aside, sir, as for my current assignment, I feel it doesn’t offer much of a challenge in the way of furthering my skills, if you’ll beg my pardon.”

  “Skills, agent?”

  “Uh, yes, sir. Quite simply, sir, I feel I’ve been left here to rot. Put out to pasture with the sheep, sir, if you will.”

  Randall rehearsed this speech dozens of times in the past week. He needs to sound assertive enough that Philip will respect his request and lend it some consideration, but any hint of pushiness or arrogance and his station up here in the north could easily become permanent. MI6 doesn’t fire its fussy young agents but it doesn’t hesitate to bury them either.

  Philip’s caterpillar eyebrows crawl together. “With the sheep, you say, eh?”

  Randall swallows hard. “Indeed, sir.”

  Philip takes another sip of tea, drains his cup, and places it back on the saucer. He dabs the linen napkin around his mouth, his eyes glued to Randall’s, searching for any indication of self-doubt.

  Randall grits his teeth and refuses to blink.

  “And you’re sure you haven’t had a shag on the job?”

  Randall scoffs and pushes his chair back from the table as Philip explodes with a rush of barrel-chested laughter. He slams his hand on the table, his eyes welling with tears while his bellows eventually shorten his breath and cause him to wheeze.

  “You get it? Sheep shagging? Newcastle?”

  Randall fishes for a few coins in his pocket, stands, and tosses them onto the table. He turns and looks straight toward at exit, though he can’t help but take a quick glance out of the corner of his eye at Laura, sitting behind the cash register, her long black hair falling over both sides of her face. Her front teeth bite her bottom lip and her shoulders hunch as if it takes all her strength to stop from joining in the laughter.

  “Randall, stay. Please. I’m sorry, old boy,” Philip says from behind him.

  Randall turns around. Philip dries his eyes with his napkin, coughs a few times as the last chuckles tremble in his chest, and motions to Randall to retake his seat.

  “The humor of an old fuddy duddy like me falls flat every time with you youngsters. I should know better by now.”

  Randall recognizes this as Philip’s attempt at an apology, though like many of the ones Randall’s heard from him previously, they never actually contain the word sorry.

  “Never mind, then, I should probably get to the point of my little visit. Yes, there is a point to my being here today, more than just to upset you.”

  Philip pops his leather briefcase open in his lap and retrieves an unmarked manila envelope. He hands it across the table to Randall who slumps back into his chair.

  “I considered writing Top Secret on it myself but then thought better of it. You’d probably believe I was taking the piss again, which I would have been.”

  “An assignment?” Randall tears the top of the envelope open and slides out two typed sheets.

  “Nothing major but a directorate from a few floors up. It needs seeing to and someone thought you were just the person for the job.”

  “Me, sir?” Randall says. “I truly believed they left me for dead up here.”

  “It’s service in the name of Her Majesty the Queen, old boy. Not always fast cars, women and guns, I’m afraid, but on occasion we’re called upon to take action. Now then, this is an easy one so even you should be quite able to handle it.”

  The top page of the dossier appears in single-spaced typeface and begins with the words Directorate 151. A stamp containing bold, black letters stating CONFIDENTIAL sits in the top right corner, while smaller type beneath reads Coordinator of Information, London, 12025. An illegible signature in red pen scrawls across it. Numbered paragraphs fill the rest of the page.

  “Listen to me first, agent, and then peruse the document, if you please.”

  Randall sets the pages face down in his lap and directs his attention to Philip who pauses a moment to light a cigarette. He knows to get serious when Philip addresses him as “agent” instead of “old boy”.

  “Her name is Svetlana Babkin.” A short breath follows Philip’s introduction. Small tufts of smoke billow out of his mouth and nostrils, absorbed by his plaid tweed jacket and the gray woolen sweater beneath it. “She’s one of our eyes and ears inside the Russian consulate in Edinburgh. It’s ground-level intelligence. As I said, nothing worth rousing the PM, but the more pieces to the puzzle we have, the more complete the picture.”

  He taps the tip of his cigarette against the edge of the brass ashtray on the table and returns it to his lips. “You’re to rendezvous with her later this evening in the dining lounge of the Brighton Guest House. Instructions are enclosed. Please memorize your introduction perfectly. Ms. Babkin is a stickler for detail and she will leave if she doubts your authenticity.”

  Randall flips the page in his lap.

  “Section two,” Philip says.

  The clattering of Laura’s shoes across the tile warns of her approach.

  “Put it away for now, if you please.”

  Randall stuffs the pages back into the manila envelope, places it on his lap, and slides his chair tight against the tabletop.

  “May I get you gents anything else?”

  “Indeed, you may . . . Laura.” Philip leans forward to read the nametag from her left lapel, but his eyes roam all over her thin legs and bright yellow uniform, tightly fit with a low-cut plunge into her cleavage, which is tastefully bordered with white cotton to minimize skin exposure. She wears no makeup, her freshly scrubbed face and pink lipstick enough to tantalize Philip’s middle-aged hormones. “Though you might take this as slightly unorthodox, I beg your forgiveness in advance.”

  Laura smiles. “Try me.”

  Philip extends his hand to Randall. “This young man here expressed to me, just minutes ago, that he would be interested in ringing you sometime.”

  Randall feels a hot surge of blood into his face as Laura raises her eyebrows at him and giggles.

  “Would he now?”

  “I told him not to be ridiculous and assured the poor sod he has a fishing boat’s chance in a hurricane, but he’s a persistent one, Laura.”

  Randall angles his foot, preparing a swift kick to Philip’s shins, but thinks better of it at the last second. This is his first major assignment since being shipped off to the Geordie countryside, and no matter what he claimed about the directorate coming from a few floors up, Randall knows Philip had at least a minimal role in sending the action his way. He’d best let Philip have a little fun at his expense in return.

  “Hmm . . .” Laura taps the eraser end of her pencil against the receipt pad in her left hand. “Well, I do admire persistence. Perhaps if he persists in visiting the café and leaving a tidier tip than usual, someday, should I see fit, he might just be rewarded with a phone number.”

  “Hey, hey!” Philip shouts in victory. “An ugly bugger like you can’t complain with that result, right?”

  Laura playfully swats Philip’s shoulder with her receipt pad. “That’s not nice!”

  “Oh, he can take it. A tough young man, this one. Had to be. Abandoned by his parents at birth, raised by wolves in the wilds of Wales.”

  “That’s not true,” Randall says to Laura.

  “The Lone Eagle they call him on the street—a quiet sort who keeps to himself, but every bit the watcher from on high. Doesn’t miss a thing.”

  “That’s not true either.”

  “Laura, whose word will you take on the matter: a distinguished British gentleman such as I, or this overly modest young rabble from the back alleys of Birmingham?”

  She tears the top sheet from the receipt pad and tosses it into the middle of the table.

  “I don’t trust either of you. But do come again.”

  When she returns to her perch behind the register, Philip reaches for the bill.

  “No, Philip, I insist,” Randall says, pulling more coi
ns from his pocket.

  Philip presses all five fingers of his right hand against the bill and slides it the rest of the way toward Randall. “But of course, old boy.”

  A sheet of steel-gray cloud hangs over the downtown core of Newcastle Upon Tyne. Randall and Philip stand on the sidewalk beside Randall’s motorbike parked outside the front door of the café. Though the trees stand in full bloom and spring tulips decorate the garden beds in the park across the street, the day feels unseasonably chilly. Randall spends his days dreaming of the sands of North Africa, the scorching sun of Spain, or the busy hustle of daily life in a sprawling metropolis like Paris or New York.

  A few raindrops splatter against the vinyl seat of his motorbike. Typical spring weather for the lovely city of Newcastle, where thick patches of green moss grow over the smooth gray stone of buildings that have stood for centuries, a stiff breeze finds any opening in your clothing, and a handkerchief is always close at hand to catch a runny nose or sneeze. When stationed in a place like Newcastle, everything seems far away, especially a young man’s dreams.

  “Something for you.” Philip hands him a small brown bag that looks like a shaving kit, held shut with a black zipper that runs along the top of it.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Open it and see.”

  Randall unzips the top of the bag and peers inside. Three slots are sewn into the side of the bag big enough to hold multiple passports or small maps. Two Swiss Army knives, one thin and one thick, are clipped to the opposite side of the inner pocket next to a small metal flashlight. A vial of sleeping pills rolls around in the bottom.

  “It’s an emergency bag. If you need to get out of somewhere quick and can only grab one thing, this should be it. It’s served me very well for many years. Now that I find myself behind a desk the majority of the time, I feel it’s time to pass it along to another agent in the field. Customize it as you see fit.”

  “Philip, this is . . . I’m truly grateful.” Scenes from the latest Bond film flash through Randall’s mind. “Do any of these do anything special?”

  Philip nods. “The flashlight shoots grappling wire that can support your weight if you need to swing from rooftop to rooftop. One pocketknife houses a transmitter, the other a receiver that can broadcast a radio signal up to a thousand kilometers away. And if you burn the bag itself, it generates enough mustard gas to asphyxiate everyone in Waterloo Station at rush hour.”

  “You’re serious!” Randall says.

  Philip smirks. “No.”

  “Okay, you’re taking the piss. But the sleeping pills? Why on earth?”

  “Sometimes missions can last for days at a time. An agent has to be on his game every minute, and when it’s all over, it’s a difficult energy to come down from. Those pills help take the edge off. There are only a couple left, but they’re strong ones, those.”

  “I’ll say. One gram per dose? That would tranquilize a horse!” Randall pulls the zipper shut. “Thank you again.”

  “Good luck.” Philip places a beige fedora over his head and unclasps the snap holding his umbrella closed. “I look forward to reading your report.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Randall says.

  “Do that, old boy. And Randall, try to have at least a bit of fun. You’re only young once, I can attest. Time renders us useless. Remember that.”

  * * *

  The Brighton Guest House’s gray stucco exterior stands in stark contrast to the dark brown and red brick mixtures of the rest of the town homes up and down Brighton Street. A trimmed box hedge marks the front of the small property along the sidewalk. Peony stems, weighed down by large pink and purple blooms at their tips, sag over the hedge and partially obscure the hotel’s gleaming white front door.

  Randall parks his motorbike in front of the hotel and dismounts, scaling the stairs in twos, and pushes into the hotel lobby. There is no concierge desk so he continues down the small hallway to the left of the stairs and finds himself in the hotel’s dining lounge.

  A few framed photos of white flower arrangements decorate the walls, which are painted in neutral beige tones. Circular-backed wooden chairs with a navy blue fabric inlay sit up to tables set with cutlery, salt and pepper shakers, and tea cups turned upside down on their saucers.

  Randall repeats the instructions he memorized from the directorate before his arrival.

  Sit at the table in the rear of the lounge facing the kitchen exit. Order an Earl Gray Tea and a blueberry crumpet.

  A waiter approaches the table shortly after Randall settles in. He wears a white chef coat, a lightly stained apron tied around his waist that covers his pants and almost touches his black penny loafers. A thinning head of brown hair, combed to the middle of his scalp, crowns his freckled face.

  It’s early evening, barely half-five when his order arrives, but the crumpet is warm enough to appear fresh from the oven. Randall applies a generous pat of butter to the top of it and takes a bite.

  “Crumpets,” a female voice says from the neighboring table. “They are the same as scones, no?”

  The words, spoken with the flourishes of a Russian accent, are instantly familiar to Randall. An extra second to swallow the crumpet allows him to clearly remember his scripted response from the directorate.

  “Similar, perhaps, but not the same. Scones are Scottish in origin, while it’s believed that crumpets originated in Wales.”

  The woman, who spoke with her face concealed behind a laminated menu, sets it down on the table in front of her. Auburn hair, parted in the middle of her head, reaches her shoulders and curls inward at the bottom, circling up toward her chin. Blue eyes enhanced with long lashes and primped brows squint at Randall, analyzing and judging him all at once. Her full red lips stand out brightly from her pale skin.

  “Is that all?” She arches her left eyebrow.

  “They also differ in chemistry. Crumpets are made from yeast-based dough. Scones use baking soda for their leavening.”

  She smiles, her hardened façade vanishing with Randall’s correct answers. Randall stands, pulls the chair out on the opposite side of the table and offers it to her.

  “Miss Babkin, I presume?”

  “Please, Svetlana will do.” She holds her black skirt against her backside as she settles into the chair.

  Randall returns to his chair on the opposite side of the table. With the exception of the waiter reading the sports section of the London Times behind the bar, and an elderly gentleman scribbling in a crossword puzzle book, Svetlana and Randall are the lounge’s only other occupants. If anyone were watching, they’d probably assume they’re witnessing nothing more than a blind date.

  “Very pleased to meet you,” he says.

  “Likewise.” Svetlana props her elbows on the table and rests her chin on the back of her entwined fingers. “You agents grow younger and handsomer each meeting.”

  “You’ve met others here?”

  She shakes her head. “Never same place twice. And never same agent. It is hard.” She sighs. “I cannot develop relationship with these men. They cannot commit.” She covers her mouth and giggles at her own joke.

  Randall forces a chuckle and breaks a piece off his blueberry crumpet. “Would you like to try some?” He places it on the spare saucer beneath his teacup and slides it across the table.

  “No,” she says, frowning. “Butter, sugar, they make me . . .” she inflates her cheeks and stretches her arms out at her sides, “ . . . big like balloon.”

  “If you’ll excuse my forwardness, Miss Babkin, you’ve a great many crumpets to eat before looking anything like that.”

  Svetlana exhales. “Sweet of you to say.” She takes the piece of crumpet and places it in her mouth, chewing slowly as if slightly suspicious, but soon nods her approval. “Reminds me of the yeast goods we have back home in St. Petersburg.”

  “Are you here permanently?”

  She shakes her head. “Only some months left on visa, then back home. But maybe if there is good lu
ck, I find husband here and stay forever.” Her eyebrow arches again and she inflects the words at the end of the sentence, phrasing it more as a question than a statement.

  A nervous chuckle rolls over Randall’s lips and he stuffs the last piece of crumpet in his mouth to silence himself.

  “Listen, I don’t want to keep you, Miss Babkin,” he says between chews. “I’m certain you’ve better things to do than sit here all day talking to me. Perhaps we could get down to business?”

  “Why such a hurry now, Randall? Did I scare you with bad word? Husband?” She over enunciates the word for added effect: Huzzzz-band.

  “Not at all,” Randall counters. “Even the sheep around these parts are beginning to look quite attractive to my lonely eyes.”

  Svetlana stares at him, her mouth slightly open.

  “You get it? Sheep shagging?”

  She shakes her head, her nose crinkling in disgust.

  Randall forces another chuckle and waves his hand as if clearing the air of his dirty comment. He should know better than to borrow Philip’s jokes. They’re as useful as defective sticks of dynamite.

  “You’ve not heard that one, I suppose. Let me ask you this then: What got you into this line of work?”

  Svetlana frowns, as though disappointed with the serious turn the conversation is taking.

  “During war, I was not yet born, but my mother told me of horrors she and her family endured.” She lifts her pinky finger to her mouth and chews on the skin around the tip of her painted nail. “But she told me she had hope. She lived in far north and remembers many British boats coming from across sea, bringing planes and tanks to Russia. We would not have won war if not for your help.”

  Randall leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest. “But now you work for us against your country.”

  Svetlana rotates her finger in her mouth and nibbles on the skin on the other side of her nail. “After war, bad times continued. Many people still suffered but under our government. They still do. We are cut off from rest of world. I love my country but I will never support our leaders. I will do what I can to bring them down.”