by Brian Martin
Back in my room in the annexe, I watched CNN repeating news that I had seen earlier. I decided to ring Roxanne but realised that it was too late to do so. It would have to wait until the morning.
Eventually I gave up the awful television and went to bed. I slept deeply to begin with and then fitfully until around six o’clock when I decided to put the call through to Roxanne.
It was not something I usually did. We communicated by email, or when she was in London we would meet. If we coincided in some foreign city as we had done in Seville, then again we would have an assignation. There was nothing frantic about our relationship. We knew we were there for each other whenever possible. It was a relationship controlled by the necessity of a reality imposed and dominated by her husband.
I dialled her Spanish number. The phone rang for some time before a young man’s voice answered and asked in Spanish who was speaking. I thought it was probably one of her husband’s secretaries or aides. That is what Roxanne said they were: I suspected them of being his bodyguards or enforcers. I told him it was an old colleague of Roxanne’s and asked if she was there. I do not know whether he believed me, but I did not like his presence there and his officious answering of the phone. It made me uneasy. He told me in English to hang on. A minute or two later Roxanne spoke to me.
‘Sorry. Who is that?’ she asked.
‘It’s OK. It’s just Pel.’
‘Oh Pelham. How nice. I didn’t expect it to be you. Where are you?’
‘In Washington. Another Journal assignment. I just wanted to hear your voice.’
‘You silly old romantic,’ she said. ‘It’ll only make it worse. You’ll have bad dreams about me. I don’t want you in trouble because of me. We could try telephone sex though. What do you think?’
‘Come on, Roxanne, that’s not the problem. I just want to hear that you’re all right. Talking’s fine: the rest can wait.’
We chatted on, about nothing very important, but just to converse with her reassured me. She told me that soon she would be able to see me.
‘Raoul is going to Helsinki and Tallinn, probably in the next two weeks as I suspected. I have suggested I stop off in London while he attends to his business. So long as you are there, it’ll be great.’
I rarely heard her mention her husband’s name. It was usually as though she could not bring herself to use it. She must have been momentarily exhilarated by his agreement and the prospect of the trip. It certainly gave me something to look forward to.
I told her that I would do everything I could to be there when she was in town. ‘I do have to go to Tallinn again pretty soon; but I doubt it’ll coincide with your husband’s visit.’
She asked me about Washington, a city that she liked. She urged me to spend time in the National Gallery and the Phillips Collection. Since the Phillips is almost next door to the Cosmos, I thought I might go there later in the day: it would depend on whatever leads my informant would give me and how her intelligence would control my time.
As it happened, the whole business evaporated. When she arrived at nine o’clock precisely, a story was just breaking that the sniper had been captured. He had made the mistake of sleeping in his car overnight in the car park of a shopping mall. The misted-up windows and out-of-the-way position of the car had excited the curiosity of a local police patrol. They had searched the man outside his car and found his Armalite in the boot. So that was the end of the story. Anyway she was a nice girl and someone who might be useful in the future. My journey was not a complete waste of time.
We enjoyed our breakfast at leisure. Under large tureens there were bacon, hash browns, mushrooms and sausages. A kitchen chef cooked your eggs to order on a spirit stove. An endless supply of excellent coffee and toast was provided at each table. She filled me in on much background detail to the chain of killings that I did not know about. Afterwards I rang my editor back in London. He had already picked up the latest developments, was glad to hear that I had made contact with the girl as a future source of American news, and said that I should just write a comprehensive summary article on the madman’s atrocities that he would print under a by-line of ‘our Washington correspondent’. After I had emailed it, I should return as soon as possible. I told him that I would talk to an old friend who was a BBC correspondent in Washington and find out if there was anything he knew that might give an interesting slant to the story.
The girl and I got on very well. She was well dressed, neatly turned out, brisk and efficient. She knew the Washington cultural scene and read contemporary fiction. She thought about moral questions in life and had views. I liked her and would have enjoyed spending time with her. When I said goodbye to her on the steps of the Cosmos, I kissed her on both cheeks. There was a certain responsive warmth I could detect. I knew that if there had been more time for the two of us, we could have established an agreeable relationship. She told me that she did not intend to move from Washington in the near future. So, I held hopes that we might meet again. I was sure she would want a physical relationship. I could sense her willingness and eagerness. I could tell that she knew we were both on the same wavelength. There was a natural magnetism between us that you did not have to speak about: the communication was through the senses. I knew she would stay in my mind; but the promise of her might be another inspiration for me and she was someone whose presence I could spend time anticipating.
So, for the moment, I had someone else on my mind as well as Roxanne. It was not unpleasant. On the contrary, and I wondered what I should think about if I did not have these beautiful women to contemplate. I fulfilled my task for the Journal and dutifully sent off my email. I fixed my flight back to London for the following day. The late afternoon I spent in the Phillips. The evening stretched ahead of me: naturally I thought of my breakfast companion.
There was little hesitation. I had her mobile number. I rang her.
‘Lena?’ Her name, she told me, was Helena, but she preferred that diminutive. I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was startled.
‘Yes. Who is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s me, Pelham. Look, I wondered if you are doing anything this evening. I’m sure you are. It’s a stupid question. I have to hang about until tomorrow and I thought we could do something, go to the flicks, have dinner, whatever. Really stupid, though. You’re probably going out with your boyfriend.’
‘Well, I do have a boyfriend, but I’m not going out with him. He’s away in Argentina for a week. You could be in luck, or, rather, we could be in luck.’
‘Wow. There you are. It’s always worth asking. What shall we do?’
‘I’m on the Metro as you can no doubt hear. I’ll go home, tidy up and, if you like, come down to the Cosmos.’
‘I certainly do like. What? About an hour?’
‘Fine. See you then.’
Suddenly the evening that might have been stretching out tediously had the prospect of not being long enough. I went to my room, relaxed and showered. At about a quarter to seven I went down to the vestibule, sat in one of the armchairs, from one of the low glass-topped coffee tables took a copy of the Washington Post, and glanced through it. I noted in its business section that Myrex was one of half a dozen companies tipped as a good investment in the old Eastern bloc countries. Within ten minutes Lena arrived. I took her coat, a wind-breaking ski jacket clearly making a fashion statement, and revealed a smart, chic, freshly made-up Lena underneath. I took both her hands in mine and kissed her on her cheeks. Her perfume was the familiar Chanel Number 5, familiar because Roxanne often wore it. Its fragrance was at first confusing, then comforting for its familiarity. What I noted when we touched, when we were in close physical contact, was that we were both completely at ease. We had only known each other for that day and yet everything seemed right. There was no awkwardness in our meeting or being together.
I took her into the bar and we each had a Dry Martini. We talked about what we had been doing that day since we had breakfasted together. She to
ld me she had been interviewing for a newspaper profile the deputy director of the School of Advanced International Studies. The School, an advanced research institution of Johns Hopkins University, stands not far from the Cosmos in Massachusetts Avenue, and trains many future government officials and NGO administrators. It has its own bases abroad, a centre in Bologna, another in Beijing. When I visited the Bologna centre on one occasion, it struck me that it might be a command post for the CIA. If you caught sight of the roof of the building, you could see that it bristled with radio masts and satellite dishes. I meant to ask Rovde about it; although he might not tell me the truth.
Lena told me that the deputy director was soon to leave SAIS and take up an advisory position at the White House. He was a leading hawk on American foreign policy and popular with the president. Lena had been fascinated by him. He had been an intensely clever boy from a southern rural background who had distinguished himself at two universities, worked briefly for the International Monetary Fund, and become involved in international relations to do with the Middle East. He was a dedicated family man and still found time to devote himself each day to playing the cello. She intended to cultivate him, so far as she could, as a future source of invaluable, privileged, information. Lena was a smart girl.
Neither Lena nor I felt particularly hungry. We decided to walk up to one of the cinemas in the complex just off Dupont Circle. A British film, The Full Monty, was showing. Lena had not seen it. I had, back in England, but I reckoned I could bear seeing it again. It was a success. Lena enjoyed it. She wound down completely, relaxed, and kept touching me. She would lay her hand on my arm, reach for my hand, and at one point she rested her head on my shoulder. It was as if she was absentmindedly doing so; as if I were someone else; as if she had forgotten who I was. Of course, I did not mind. I welcomed the intimate gestures. I liked it and I responded.
Afterwards we found a small steak house nearby, some hundreds of yards down Connecticut Avenue. She described to me a new exhibition of installation artists at the National Museum of American Art. There was no doubt about it; we devoured each other’s company. So, what were we to do? I whispered to her that there was no reason why she should not come back to the Cosmos with me. We would not be disturbed. As it happened, I was in a double room. No one would raise an eyebrow even if we were noticed. Acquiescence was immediate. There was no havering on her part, and certainly not on mine. It was all quite natural. We proceeded, as it appeared we should.
So we spent the night together in the comfort of each other and the Cosmos. It was an extraordinary change of circumstance for me. It did cross my mind to ask her about her absent boyfriend. Then, since there was no real reason to put our present position in jeopardy, I did not. That problem, if it was a problem, she could sort out when I was back in Britain.
She was good in bed, lithe, warm and supple. She was considerate, too: she comforted and nuzzled me. I began to wonder why we had not found each other before; but I knew that was a stupid question because of its obvious answers. What we had to do was make the most of time. When she came to climax, she wept, which disturbed me until I realised that she wept with pleasure, sheer exhilaration. It would be true to say that we lost ourselves in ecstasy.
That was my Washington trip. In the morning it was all over. Lena had to leave early. She liked breakfast meetings. She had one with a senator who was supposed to be an expert on Arab influence in North Africa. She was following up something she had discovered about Libya and chemical weapons. We woke around seven. She showered, made up, and rushed off. She kissed me elegantly and with feeling. We promised to meet again. Neither of us had much conviction. It would have been nice though.
I took my time getting up, had a leisurely breakfast reading the newspapers, and eventually caught a transit coach to the airport. The plane took off in mid afternoon.
11
I did not sleep. The trouble with that flight is that it arrives at Heathrow at some unearthly hour in the morning. I felt fine to begin with but as that interminable day wore on I began to grow more and more depressed. I could not work out what I was so down about. I was conscious of the depression and rational enough to want to know the reason for my nosedive. Just before lunchtime, I rang Mark on his mobile. I had looked in at my Journal office, sorted through one or two company reports that had come in, read my emails, noted that an MP wanted to talk to me, and chatted with my editor. Mark and I decided to meet for tea at four thirty p.m. in my club.
I took a taxi there and arrived round about half past two. There were few members in the drawing room which allowed me to find a chaise longue in the corner, stretch out and snooze. I was reluctant to do so: I knew that sleeping in the day is always disastrous for me. I always wake up feeling much worse than before I succumbed; but I was too tired to resist. Sure enough when Mark appeared, I came to in a spirit of utter gloom. Beyond telling him that I felt awful, very low and depressed, I could not articulate my precise feelings. Mark understood. He had seen me like this before. Once he had nursed me for three days through an extremely bad patch after I had broken up with a girlfriend of long standing. At least he was with me: he would not mind my bleak, anti-social mood. He understood me and, in a real sense, looked after me.
He gradually coaxed me to talk, to overcome a sort of sick and sullen silence that had overtaken me. The old Ghurka waiter brought us toasted teacakes and Assam tea. I told him in spasmodic outbursts about Washington and Lena. He said, very reasonably, that my lowness of spirit was because of jet lag, descent from the high that I had experienced with Lena, and a general worry about the future that was always worse when stressed and tired. Intellectually, I understood his analysis. He was right.
My physical, biochemical reaction was quite different. I knew I would have to wait for a day, even two, to regain my equilibrium. Mark, who practised a form of Buddhist meditation, instructed me to be patient, to try calm contemplation and meditation. In the past he had been my teacher of the Eightfold Path. I resolved to try again. It was no time, because of my weary condition, to talk of serious matters to do with Myrex. When I left him shortly after we had finished our tea, I went straight home, sat cross-legged on my sitting-room floor, composed myself, breathed regularly and deeply, and simply thought about myself, then Roxanne, then Arne. That was as far as I reached on the contemplative route. I was overcome by such tiredness that I went to bed early and slept soundly until eight the next morning.
12
On the way to the Journal I called in at Willy’s St James’s Square rooms. His secretary had left an unambiguous message on my mobile. He told me that everyone in the Service was growing more and more concerned about what was happening in the Baltic states. The government, the US, and the European Community in general, were all worried by the huge, obvious increase in criminal activity in those recently freed countries. None of the Western powers was prepared to allow any criminal organisation absolute control of any aspect of the developing economies and it was determined that those criminal elements would be eradicated. He stressed to me what I already knew, that you could only do that speedily and effectively if you could rely on exact intelligence. He reckoned that I was crucial in this respect; and so too, he thought, might Mark. We knew the turf and it was necessary to hurry on with the job. I told him that there would be little problem in persuading the Journal to send me back to Tallinn. He asked me therefore to arrange another visit as soon as possible. In the meantime I was to maintain contact with everyone I knew out there – I thought of Mo, Rovde, even, perhaps, Arne himself – and monitor what was going on. He would make sure that Mark was alerted too though through another Service intermediary.
At the end of what really amounted to a briefing on the Baltic, he revealed, almost in an aside, that poor Belmont had been assassinated. There was now clear evidence that he had tried to work with business interests in Seville, ones with which Roxanne’s husband had connections, and that he had hoped to make himself a fortune. The conjecture that he was
setting up his retirement pension was correct. His Sevillian employers had then discovered and confirmed his British Security Services links and decided that he was a liability: he was a man they could not trust. He was eradicated. It had been a contract killing. Someone in Seville had paid 15,000 euros to have him put out of the way. It had been calculated that it was worth that much to cure that irritating sore he had suddenly become. An underworld mole had provided the information and it had been confirmed by subsequent investigation. We even knew who the contracted killer was and he, in turn, had met with an arranged fatal road accident. Myrex was involved: it was one of the business interests that Belmont had approached; but we knew that already.
I asked Willy if any more was known about the car bomb explosion in Waterloo Place. He commented that Special Branch and MI5 now thought that the targets had been two businessmen, a Swiss and a Russian, who were being hosted at the Institute of Directors. It had been established that a slight delay in the explosion, which had been remotely controlled, enabled the two to avoid the full force of the bomb. They had left their own car and were entering the IOD building through the Pall Mall door. He stressed that it was the theory running top of the list at that time. The Russian and the Swiss were being looked into carefully to discover if there was any good reason for an assassination attempt. He would let me know how it all turned out if he felt there was any bearing on what I was working on. That was his way of saying that I was not to ask him about the bomb again: he would volunteer information if it were relevant. Otherwise I could read what my own newspaper had to say about it, if it was still interested in it.
My meeting with him concluded, I desperately hoped that my next mission to Tallinn would not coincide with Roxanne’s stay in London, although it did occur to me that if Raoul, her husband, was going to be in Estonia, it might be favourable to be there at the same time. If it were possible to watch the effect of his presence on affairs out there, it might prove useful to our cause.
