The Double Bind of Mr. Rigby

by Brian Martin

  So, I felt safe walking round the filthy streets of Paldiski with that escort. There was refuse scattered around and every so often there were piles or smears of dog excrement frozen by the sub-zero temperature. The only cleaning that the streets of Paldiski received was from wind and rain.

  Anyone we encountered in those dismal streets gave us a wide berth. When they saw us coming, groups of two or three people would cross to the other side of the street, and watch us sullenly. They were used to the phenomenon and were wary. Our minders did not look particularly thuggish or brutal, just tough, not to be argued with, and gave an impression of immediate violent response if opposed. They looked more like fit, young, American football players than gangster hoods who operated on hair-trigger control.

  At the foot of external stairwells, small groups of men stood and smoked cigarettes, muffled in old coats, some ex-naval greatcoats. It was the same there in Paldiski as in Russia itself, ex-military personnel seemed to have been left behind, still dressed in the remnants of their uniforms. Moscow, indeed the whole of Russia, was full of what seemed to be a second-hand army, individuals in ill-kempt greatcoats and caps, some selling cigarettes and matches, some just begging. We came to a part of a street that seemed to provide shops of a poor sort. Steel shutters presented shop fronts. They either covered the remains of glass windows or stood in for those shattered windows. They were lifted halfway up where the entrances were, and most of the goods were in boxes on the pavement outside. Food, cabbages in their crates, potatoes in sacks, carrots in boxes, all stood on the sidewalk. Boxes of cheap clothes, shirts, women’s and men’s underwear, tights, cheap shoes and boots, rails of coats and trousers, were lined up outside another steel-fronted shop. Paldiski provided subsistence living. It contrasted vividly with prosperous Tallinn. It was a Baltic sink: nobody wanted to know about it. The Soviets had airbrushed it out of the picture. The Estonians preferred to keep it that way.

  Paldiski could hardly be called a town. It was, or rather had been, entirely functional. It had existed specifically for the Soviet navy. Now it held on to life by virtue of the few remaining Russians left over and living there. Yet I detected from what Arne said that Myrex had great plans for that desolate settlement. It occurred to me that they could smarten up the place and convert it into a modern privately run town that existed just for Myrex: a privately run computer equivalent of the old Cold War naval base. Perhaps they would even change its name from Paldiski to Myrex. Certainly Myrex had plans for a huge area of the town close to the complex they were developing. Arne explained to me how buildings would be razed, landscaping effected, gardens planted. He saw the possibility of that site as the Baltic headquarters of the corporation, in summer attractive for clients to visit, close to the old city of Tallinn, and en route for Helsinki and St Petersburg. Arne was decidedly one of the people in Myrex with a grand vision of the future.

  As we walked round, and eventually took a minor street down across the main road towards the waterfront, a subdued but gently nagging worry surfaced in my mind. I wondered about Mark. Why had I not heard from him? I had left a couple of messages on his voicemail. I did not know where he was. He was supposed to be keeping close watch on me. I was very unsure that he was aware of where I was. I had told him that I was going to Paldiski with Arne, but had he taken it in? I hoped so. We crossed down to the seafront, and as we did so, a large black Mercedes with smoked-glass windows coming from the direction of Tallinn drove at high speed towards the Myrex complex. In the distance I watched it come to an abrupt halt. As soon as it was stationary, the front passenger door opened and a man, clearly trained in escort duties, emerged swiftly and moved to the rear. He opened the kerb-side door and what looked like a hooded figure was assisted out, followed by another dark-suited escort. I could not quite make out what was covering the person’s head and obscuring the face. Pinning the man firmly by the arms, the trio disappeared inside the building. The car drew away and disappeared behind the spider complex of the labs. Naturally, that did nothing to set at rest my increasing nervousness. Was I mistaken? Was the figure hooded? I judged it imprudent to ask Arne what was happening; but there was no doubt he had seen the arrival. His brow had momentarily furrowed in annoyance.

  We continued to the beach. We stood on the stones and sand with a bitterly cold wind blowing off the sea and looked both ways along the expanse of the promenade. It was bleak: concrete road, functional for the movement of military vehicles and goods. Inland, the prospect was of decaying concrete offices, workshops and laboratories. I wished desperately that the day was over and that I was back in Tallinn at the Gloria. I little realised then what was in store for me.

  26

  Eventually we made our way back to the Myrex block. Our bodyguards parted from us as we entered the reception room. Arne and I sat down and the hostess-secretary came in and offered us coffee. Arne declined but asked her for orange juice. I felt the need of some strong coffee and asked for it black. Arne talked about Myrex plans and said they were determined to establish themselves as the major commercial and industrial holding in Estonia. It was going to be difficult. There was a great deal of competition and much of it was unscrupulous. He said he did not mind that: Myrex knew how to look after its own interests and was prepared to exert the maximum pressure on rivals to gain supremacy. He talked in terms of colonisation and warfare. It was the language of political struggle, backed by some means of armed force, which he seemed to use. I was not sure about the implied or intended use of force, but that was the impression he gave. I weighed up in my mind the heavily built young men who had escorted us around Paldiski and tended to believe in the possibility of both his advocacy and his use of force majeure. That belief came to the forefront of my mind and I wondered again where Mark was.

  The hostess came back with our drinks and gave Arne a sheet of paper that looked like a memo. He took a sip from the glass of orange juice and scanned the sheet. His brow furrowed slightly, he flicked back his hair, and stared ahead, lost in thought. After a few moments he said to me, ‘Raoul is here. He arrived half an hour or so ago. He wants to see you.’

  He paused, and while he did so, I commented, ‘That’s fine. I don’t really know him though. We’ve met only fleetingly.’ I wanted to add that it was his wife I knew, and, of course, intimately, but I concluded it was inappropriate.

  He looked up and straight at me. ‘I am instructed here,’ and he waved the paper at me, ‘to say that you must reconsider your decision to decline Myrex’s offer of engagement.’

  His use of the word ‘must’ I thought curious and offensive. Why should I be made to feel that there was an element of compulsion about this business? It made no sense. It was not how such offers should be presented. Yet I knew that Arne was using the right word. He was precise and correct in his use of English. He was not making a mistake.

  ‘What do you mean, “must”?’ I asked. ‘I’ve told you, I’m perfectly happy as I am. I simply don’t want to work for Myrex.’ Any lingering doubt about my refusal of the offer vanished completely. I began to feel resentful and annoyed. ‘He can’t force me to accept,’ I added.

  ‘I used the word “must” because that was the word written to me; and I know Raoul’s mind. He will not accept compromise and he will not accept no for an answer. I have to tell you this. He sees you as a real danger for some reason, and because of that and for your own safety, and his wife’s sake, you have to be engaged. He is not a sentimental man. I advise you to do what he wants. I have seen many accidents.’

  I could not understand exactly what he meant. Was he talking in general terms, or was he being specific? Had he witnessed whatever was described as accidents in reality? I did not know and could not judge. I have to confess, I began to feel frightened.

  ‘What do you mean “accidents”?’

  ‘He achieves what he wants,’ Arne said. ‘I have never known him not to do so. He will therefore use any means. Accidents, executions. I do not mind. You call them what you will. I
n business at Raoul’s level people suffer. It is not a game: it is deadly serious. We are not talking small sums of money; we are talking about profit margins in excess of the GNP of Egypt for example.’ Momentarily I wondered why he had chosen Egypt as his example, but then I decided that was irrelevant: he had made his point. If you regard your income in terms of national budgetary finance, then you are prepared to wage war to defend your national interests.

  Cornered and affronted, I said to Arne, ‘You’re telling me, in fact, I have no choice. I can’t believe it. You’re not serious. He’s not going to arrange an accident for me. He’s not going to eliminate me. I’m not important enough. It’s not worth it. I’m simply a newspaper reporter. It’s ridiculous.’

  Arne looked right at me. ‘He thinks differently. I have to tell you that he knows things about you that would surprise you. He is insistent. I cannot tell you more. Yes, you are in danger; but he does not intend to put you out of the way. He will make you do what he wants. That’s all.’

  I reflected to myself that he could not do that. I was the master of my soul. So, he knew things about me. It did not come as a surprise. I knew from Willy that in the world of intelligence, paradoxically, nothing is secret to those in the business no matter which side they are on. If Raoul’s intelligence network were as efficient as his international corporation, then he would know my background and various employers. At least I knew from what Arne said that my life was not in danger.

  ‘What happens now?’ I asked. I had not touched my coffee but desperately needed the lavatory. Arne had finished his orange juice.

  ‘He will see you very shortly if you still insist on not joining us. Otherwise, if you agree, we go back to Tallinn, you carry on your business as before until you hear from us next week in London.’

  ‘I must use the loo,’ I said. He pointed to the hostess’s door and told me it was on the right. As I peed I thought defiantly, I would not be browbeaten. I would confront Raoul and tell him what I thought. In a sense, I had the power of the press and of Her Majesty’s government behind me. At the same time, there in Paldiski, I knew I was on my own. I did not even know where Mark was. When I went back into the room, I said to Arne, ‘You’d better tell him that I’ll see him. I don’t like having my arm twisted.’

  ‘It is not a question of twisting arms,’ Arne said. ‘Raoul’s argument about what you do will be obvious. You will agree immediately.’ He went out through the door to the hostess. I heard a brief conversation. Then I heard him make a telephone call but I could not make out what he was saying. His voice was subdued and muffled by the barrier of two doors. He came back into the room and said, ‘They want to see you in twenty minutes. I have to go now to meet Raoul. You should stay here. There is more coffee if you need it.’ He went back through the door to the hostess’s domain. I thought to myself that I had no alternative. I had to stay in that reception room. There was nowhere else in Paldiski I could go to. I was a sort of enemy alien in the town. It was bad enough to be escorted around by Myrex goons, but to be on my own would be suicide.

  The twenty minutes passed slowly. I did not feel like any more coffee. I simply sat and contemplated the future. I wondered where Mark was and hoped desperately that he was keeping track of me. I thought about Rovde and Mo. The image of poor Belmont passed before my mind’s eye. I did not want to end up like him.

  A quarter of an hour later, Lars came into the room and said that Raoul was ready to talk to me: we needed to travel a short distance to another building. Although it was not far, he said we should go by car. We left the reception room, stepped outside into the increasing cold of that afternoon. We travelled no more than a thousand yards to a low concrete, shed-like structure. It had a long raised loading bay, twenty yards or so, at the front of it. I reckoned it must have been a warehouse of some sort at some time. It stood among pine trees and was sheltered from the other buildings by a screen of trees. Lars parked the car alongside the loading bay and together we went in through heavy, steel-framed doors at the side to a corridor that led us to another door. We entered through that door a large spacious room, once used for storage. In one corner there were piled-up wooden packing cases. Next to them, a line of cardboard boxes, the size that would hold television sets, was pushed in close to the wall. There was not much light. A couple of shade-less lamps hung from the ceiling closest to the door: four more in the room were not illuminated. There was a long office table behind which there were four chairs, and a single chair was positioned almost in the middle of the room. At the far end was an industrial blow-heater. It emitted a constant low growl and a flow of warm air. Near the table and farthest away from us stood a heavily built man in a dark suit who looked like a typical nightclub bouncer. I thought I should not like to disagree with him.

  Almost immediately after I had taken in my surroundings, Raoul and three men who were clearly his bodyguards came in. Raoul, a large, thickset man, was wearing a huge beige cashmere coat with an Astrakhan collar. I remember thinking that I had never seen a coat like that before: it could only have been tailor-made for him. It was belted round his waist. He did not undo it, which immediately gave me the impression that he was not going to stay for long. His three bodyguards spread out around him as though they were giving him space to do exercises.

  Raoul had looked towards me as he came in but had not acknowledged me. As his escorts positioned themselves, he turned to me and nodded. His face was not clear, not well lit, partly in shadow. He had full, fleshy features, dark eyes, jet-black hair and a thick moustache, in style something between the military and the twenty-past-eight Zapata. The last time I had heard him speak was publicly in Seville at the dinner where I sat next to Roxanne. He said in his deep, accented voice, ‘Pelham, you have to engage with us. The decision has been made. You have no alternative. You must in future work for us within your present newspaper business. Surely you must realise that you have no options. To refuse or resist is foolishness. I cannot stress how serious we are. There is no question of any other arrangement. Arne has told me that you have declined, but that is not possible. You have been asked to reconsider. You have, not to our satisfaction. We have to show you that we go no further. You must comply. There is no other way.’

  I wondered how he was going to enforce the Myrex decision. I looked at the solitary chair in the room set on its own before the table. When was he going to put me in that seat and subject me to all sorts of humiliating persuasive experiences? Was I going to be tortured? Were glowing cigarette ends going to be applied to my skin? What was in his mind? I had no real idea and I did not want to think about it: it was going to happen soon enough. That is what I thought.

  ‘You have, I suppose, this one last chance to agree with our proposal,’ he continued, ‘before we enforce your compliance.’

  ‘Look, this is ridiculous,’ I said, my voice ascending a register with nervousness. It crossed my mind that after all he was a jealous man and he was taking revenge for my intimacies with Roxanne. ‘You can’t make me do this. It’s unrealistic. There’s no reason why I should.’

  ‘On the contrary, there is every reason, from so many people’s points of view,’ he countered. ‘But I am not going to have an argument with you. Arne has done all the discussing there needs be. He has given me an exact account of your way of thinking.’ At that moment the door opened and Arne came in. He barely entered the room. He took one pace in and stood still next to the door as though he were ready to make a quick getaway. He said nothing. I could not catch his eye. He was like a guardsman in Whitehall: his eyes were fixed ahead. Rather, he was like someone dying, the soul staring out of the eyes yet not able to see or recognise anyone or anything. Arne stood immobile, blonde-haired, gray of complexion in the half-light, almost a corpse.

  Raoul shrugged and shifted his weight. ‘We must make you. We must waste no more time.’ His left hand was deep in his overcoat pocket. He signalled with his gloved right hand. I noticed that the glove was expensive, soft, probably pigskin. O
ne of his retinue moved and went out of the door. Raoul stood and waited. Everyone was silent. The only noise that could be heard was that from the industrial heater.

  After a short time, the door opened and the hooded figure that I had glimpsed being hustled in from the car was pushed into the room. Two men ensured that the figure made his entrance. One of them wore a balaclava and was dressed entirely in black. The hooded man was forced to sit on the chair in front of the table and his hands were manacled behind him. The man in the balaclava stood at his back and the other kept to one side.

  The growling of the heater alone was heard. Raoul looked at the black-clad man behind the chair and barely nodded his head. The man leaned forward, undid a strap round the hood and lifted it off. The person, the victim, seated on the chair was, to my utter astonishment and discomposure, Mark. I was horror-struck. What sort of a mess were we in? What were Raoul’s intentions now?

  Mark was sheet-white. His eyes were haunted. He blinked and looked around him. He saw me and looked directly at me. He did not say a word. I was shocked and momentarily paralysed. I could not speak. The noise of the heater went on. Mark shifted a little in his seat. It was as if he were making himself comfortable for listening to a concert. What was happening there in that warehouse suddenly made its impact on me. I managed to say to Raoul, ‘What’s going on? Why is Mark like that? Let him go. What is this? An interrogation centre?’