The Double Bind of Mr. Rigby

by Brian Martin

  ‘Who is that?’ a voice asked.

  ‘Pelham Rigby,’ I replied. ‘I’d like to see the director.’

  ‘There is no one here, Mr Rigby. He will get in touch.’ The intercom clicked off. I was shut out, excluded.

  That particular evening, I went to my club for dinner. I took an underground train from Swiss Cottage where I had been seeing my psychotherapist for an hour, the one recommended by Linda Evans. The session had made no difference to the way I felt. I consoled myself with the thought that the effect would be long term. In the bar I met Willy. Until then I considered that he had been avoiding me. He was the first person from the Service I had met since my debriefing, and, of course, debriefing and interrogation were his intelligence specialties. I was pleased to meet him there and we drank some champagne. He was dining that evening at the club, and so we ended up having dinner together. I learned from him upsetting news.

  We were sipping some club Burgundy, waiting for our first courses to be served. I said to Willy, ‘I can’t seem to make contact with either you or the director. I don’t understand it. I feel cold-shouldered. No one’s been in touch with me since my debriefing.’

  ‘But it’s as if you’re on permanent sick leave, old boy,’ Willy said in a surprised way. ‘After all, you’re under treatment.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I was astounded. No one had informed me, and I explained to Willy my lack of contact and information. He expressed amazement and said that everyone knew at HQ that I had suffered a nervous breakdown and was having treatment. I was therefore not to be engaged with.

  I was outraged. ‘I haven’t been told. What do they think they’re doing? I’ve been very useful.’ I could not believe what I was hearing.

  Willy explained that the Service line on me was that, in the course of events, Mark had been murdered in Tallinn and his body had been found in the docks. The version of events according to the director was exactly the same as the story I had written for the Journal on my return, based on what the Tallinn papers had reported. So, that was the official line. It was ironic. I was branded as mad. I had been unbalanced by the death of my dear friend and was no longer reliable. I was having psychotherapy and that, of course, proved that I was mad. In those circumstances, the director, in consultation with his political bosses, had decided to take me out of action. My account of the horrors of Paldiski and Mark’s murder there was attributed to fantasy. My intelligence work and the trauma of Mark’s death had turned my wits. That was the simple story they would make public if ever I were to start talking about what really happened.

  I barely touched my soup. I felt sick deep inside. My inner being was in utter turmoil. I felt confused and, increasingly, I felt betrayed. Then the sickness gave way to anger. How could they treat me like that after what I considered loyal service? To describe me as mad was similar to a device often used by the KGB in the old days of the Soviet empire: I knew that. I realised that the Service had no sentiment. I was worn out, expendable. I should have known. The Security Service has no conscience, is entirely pragmatic, and anyway, I had served my purpose.

  ‘So, Willy, you think I’m mad,’ I commented bitterly.

  ‘I’m in no position to judge,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave that for your therapist to find out. You seem pretty sane to me. But then, what is madness?’

  That was a question I could not answer.

  My suffering did not end there.

  Later, when I was back at home, I rang my phone bank. My small house behind Olympia, comfortable, snug, somewhere that had been for me a hospitable refuge, was a lonelier place now because I experienced an acute sense of isolation. Mark was no longer close by to be called up and asked round, invited out to the riverside pub. I had no one to turn to now when I felt the approach of depression. I thought ruefully and regretfully that I should have been better off in Tallinn where there were Mo and Rovde. I saw clearly that I was going to have to cultivate more friends; but at that time I lacked the heart.

  I rang the phone bank to find out what my balance was. It was healthy. I could take time off and travel somewhere should I have the inclination. In addition there was the promise of Myrex payments coming in. There had been none yet. I wondered what they would amount to, and when I would hear about my Brussels account. I did not baulk at the prospect of Myrex money, but I had no relish for it.

  In the end, it was my lack of enthusiasm, or, if you like, my lack of avarice, that made my disappointment bearable. I could shrug the whole thing off as inevitable. I was resigned to the put-down, the double cross. What happened was that Myrex never paid any money into my bank account. No account was ever opened in Brussels. Every so often I checked my current account. It was always the same: nothing was ever credited from Myrex. I suppose I felt cheated for a short time. I even rang the Myrex house in Tallinn – ‘You can phone me here any time or use my mobile number,’ Arne had said. Well, I did ring the Myrex house several times even though Arne was dead. I was told by some employee that the problem would be looked into; it never was.

  Then suddenly, after not hearing from him for several weeks, Rovde rang me.

  ‘Pelham, old buddy, we must talk. We’ve got some work for you. It’s to do with Raoul. We’re closing in on Myrex – orders from the very top. I’ll be in London on Tuesday. Can we meet at lunchtime at that Selfridge’s place, the one at the top of the building?’

  Uri was clearly not in the mood for a chat. ‘Well, sure. I’ll be there. One o’clock. You’re in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘I sure am. Everything will keep. See you Tuesday. It’s exciting, especially for you.’

  I did not know what he meant by that final remark but the prospect of some action and being back in the Myrex loop made me feel active and less depressed.

  When we met in that medley of kitchens at the top of Selfridge’s – we decided to eat Thai food – I was not prepared for the commission that Uri gave me. Nevertheless I decided to accept it.

  What he wanted was for me to contact Roxanne and find out when we could next meet. I had told him about my affair with her and that it was the reason for my closeness to Myrex. He wanted me to ascertain Raoul’s movements. The Agency needed to know. He was to be tracked down and eliminated. Myrex was to be neutralised.

  Uri used the language of bureaucratic administration; eliminated, neutralised. What he meant was killed and destroyed. My first reaction was that I did not want anything to do with his business. Roxanne and my relationship with her were completely independent of Raoul and his hideous commercial operation. Yet he had murdered Mark and was prepared to murder Mo. Was I to be a pimp in the service of the Agency’s concerns?

  ‘Well, can you do this for us, Pel?’ Rovde looked me straight in the eyes; he had lost for me the bumbling, teddy-bear aspect of his character that he exhibited in the presence of Mo. I looked away towards a franchise section just beyond the boundary of the restaurant, next to the top of the escalator, and watched for a moment steam rising from a humidifier that was on special offer. I paused and shifted in my chair.

  ‘Come on, buddy. He’s condemned anyway. You’ll just make it easier for us.’

  Suddenly I experienced one of those peculiar situations where you think you see in the distance someone you know, someone extremely familiar. Then when you stop to work out who it is, you realise that the person you think you have seen is actually dead. Thus it was that I thought I saw Mark at the end of a long run of passageway that headed off down the store between two lines of franchise shops. The vision decided me.

  ‘OK, I’ll do it. I’ll find out what he’s doing. Roxanne will tell me.’

  30

  Early that evening I rang Roxanne. This time there was no smooth-tongued Spanish secretary who answered the phone. It was Roxanne herself.

  ‘Pelham dear, how nice to hear you. When are we going to meet? I miss you terribly. Raoul’s been away in the Baltic. It seems he’s too busy for me. I need you.’

  Immediately I felt the old frisson of de
sire and, at the same time, a stab of guilt. I was about to use her for other ends than the cause of love. Yet she was irresistible.

  ‘Likewise,’ I responded. ‘When are you likely to be in London next? What are Raoul’s plans? I can’t wait to see you.’

  ‘I can’t wait to touch you. Just talking to you excites me. Look, I think Raoul plans to fly to the UK at the weekend. He’s meeting some Russians at Claridge’s, so we’ll no doubt be staying there. He’ll want me with him. Just hang on, I’ll ask his secretary.’

  There was a long silence. I began to think that the line had gone dead and that I should have to ring back. Yet I held on and eventually she returned.

  ‘Yes, Pel, are you there? We’re flying on Saturday morning to Heathrow and we’ll be at Claridge’s by lunchtime. I’ll ring you from there in the early afternoon and let you know what’s happening.’ She added tantalisingly, ‘I hope you’re in the mood for love.’ It was an old cliché but I was and could barely contain my excitement.

  When we had finished talking after another twenty minutes or so, I phoned Uri. I had a momentary sense of betrayal but it passed quickly.

  ‘That’s just great, Pel. Let me now what he’s doing, where he’s going. It’s essential that we pin him down.’ That seemed to me like another bureaucratic euphemism.

  It occurred to me that perhaps Willy should know what was happening.

  ‘What about Willy and the British Service, Uri? Shouldn’t they know what is going on?’

  ‘All in good time, my friend. No one is to know at present what goes on between you and me. Willy will get to know. Keep quiet for now. We’ll share our info, but not yet.’

  The rest of the week passed. I went in and out of the Journal’s offices. At times I felt depressed; at others elated that something was happening that might avenge Mark’s death. I certainly looked forward to Roxanne’s arrival. Once I met Willy in Lower Regent Street. He was making for Piccadilly and Hatchard’s bookshop.

  ‘Morning, Pelham. How’s things?’

  Naturally I felt restrained. I wanted to tell him about Uri and the Raoul plot but knew that I could not. I talked generally and, I suppose, pleasantly, and then just as we were to part, he said, ‘We might need you to do something for us, Pel. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll get in touch – officially.’

  That did not leave me particularly happy. I did not want to be the factotum of both Security Services. I was not one of them. What about my own personal security? I felt even more uneasy than I already was.

  When Saturday arrived I was eager to meet Roxanne. The prospect of being with her made me restless. I could not concentrate on anything else. My mind was filled with images of her from the past, most of them erotic. Nevertheless I experienced a degree of apprehension that I had never had before. I felt extremely nervous, but that of course was to do with Raoul.

  At around two o’clock my mobile rang. It was Roxanne, clear-voiced, welcoming and seductive.

  ‘Come round, Pel. I’ll be on my own this afternoon, probably for the rest of the day. We’ll have the suite to ourselves. I can’t wait.’

  ‘Nor can I. I’ll be with you in roughly half an hour.’

  There was no need to say more. By 3.15 I was being ushered into the Brook Street entrance to Claridge’s by a top-hatted and red-waistcoated doorman. By 3.30 Roxanne and I had renewed our old intimacy. An hour later we decided to go downstairs and have tea. We took a table close to the main fireplace and ordered smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches. She told me that she would be very much on her own during this trip. Raoul had several appointments. I asked her what he was doing that evening.

  ‘Well, he comes back from some meeting at a factory in Bethnal Green, but he’s not coming here. He’s going straight to the Ritz to meet some people for drinks and then on to L’Escargot for dinner. He’s going to ring me from the Ritz. We’ll be all on our own. What shall we do?’

  Immediately I thought that Uri had better know; after all that was my commission, to keep him informed of Raoul’s movements. At the same time I felt uneasy, treacherous. I was leading Raoul into a trap, which almost certainly was going to be fatal. Then I thought of Mark, that dismal Paldiski building and Raoul’s imperious presence there. I had no compunction. I said to Roxanne that I had to make a phone call to the paper. Already I was entering the world of deceit and subterfuge. I went to the lobby, rang Uri’s mobile and reported Raoul’s schedule.

  ‘Thanks, Pel. Can you call me when he rings from the Ritz. Our boys are standing by. I reckon he’ll be there about an hour and a half. We need to get him away. It’s important you ring me; we’ll be short of time. Still, if it doesn’t work this evening, there’s always tomorrow. We’ve got to be patient in this game. You’ll learn that.’

  Did he assume I was joining up? Was he thinking that I would become one of his crowd? Those questions went through my head. I reserved my position. The Raoul business had to be accomplished first, even though in a pure sense it involved an act of betrayal on my part. It was an act of piety, something I owed to Mark’s memory.

  ‘OK, Uri, I’ll let you know immediately.’ I returned to the reality of Roxanne’s care and warmth.

  At five past six when we had embarked on our first Martinis, a waiter came up to us and said there was a call for Roxanne. I knew it could not be anyone else but Raoul, and sure enough Roxanne returned and told me that he was at the Ritz. Again, I told her I had to contact the Journal. Being a journalist was a good excuse for always using the phone.

  Uri was pleased but cut me off short: he said that he had to move quickly. So far, my part in the deed had been done.

  31

  What happened then came as a complete surprise to me. Roxanne and I spent an extraordinary evening together. I had never seen her so relaxed. It was like experiencing how she might be when Raoul was no longer with us. We talked a great deal but not once did either of us mention Myrex. We drank and dined. Everything went on to Raoul’s tab. Subsequently I thought it had something of mafia irony about it, our evening together at Raoul’s, a condemned man’s, expense.

  It was late in the evening when we heard the news. A waiter came to our table and asked for a private word with Mrs Gimenez. Roxanne, mystified, left the table and went with the waiter into the anteroom of the dining room. She came back to me and said that there had been a telephone call and that she had to ring a certain number, but that when she did so a relative or close friend should be with her. She said rather light-heartedly that since Raoul was not present perhaps I would not mind performing the duty. It all sounded odd to me but I agreed. At that point I did not connect the call to Raoul or Uri.

  Roxanne quickly finished her coffee and I drained my coupe of champagne. We took the lift to Raoul’s suite; and there standing next to her as she made the call I heard the dramatic news. After brief preliminaries and a question answered in the affirmative about who was with her, I just managed to hear from the receiver that Roxanne held, ‘I’m afraid to have to tell you that Mr Gimenez is dead. It will come as a terrible shock.’ Then there was a pause, and I watched the information sink in. I had suddenly gone extremely cold and felt gooseflesh rise at the back of my neck. Roxanne did not say a word but stood looking blank. Then she quivered slightly, pulled herself together and said sharply, ‘I don’t believe it. Who are you? Who am I speaking to?’ Again I overheard the reply. ‘I’m Inspector Naish at the Savile Row station. I think you should go to the Ritz Hotel if you can – if there is someone with you. I have to tell you that it looks as if Mr Gimenez took his own life.’ Roxanne, drained white, walked in a half circle to a chair and sat down. She handed the phone to me. ‘It’s OK, inspector. I’m a friend. I’ll go with her to the Ritz. We’ll be as quick as we can. Thanks.’

  Roxanne was pale and frowning. I realised too that she was angry. I had witnessed two other people in my life being given news of their loved one’s death; individuals react in different ways. Roxanne’s initial disbelief had changed into anger. She rail
ed. It was impossible, she said. ‘Raoul would never take his own life. He’s not like that. It’s impossible. There just has to be a mistake. This can’t be right.’ The truth was that I too thought it crazy: Raoul was certainly not the sort of man to commit suicide. Then I thought of Uri. What was going on? Was he involved? If indeed Raoul was dead at the Ritz, then of course Uri had something to do with it, and I would be the agent of his death. I did not like that thought. It sat uneasily on my conscience.

  Roxanne, hardly knowing what she was doing, got herself together, found her handbag and a light coat, and we took the lift down to the vestibule. Although it was only a short walk from Carlos Place to the Ritz I asked the doorman to hail us a taxi. There were several waiting, poised for an easy fare, outside the hotel. It rapidly took us down Berkeley Street to Piccadilly. At the intersection we stopped. I extravagantly gave the driver a ten-pound note and we hurried across the road to the Ritz. There were four police cars and an ambulance outside and the main entrance was cordoned off by blue-and-white tape. I explained to an officer who we were and we were allowed in. A constable took us to a group of senior officers seated incongruously at one of the tables usually occupied by elegant middle-aged women in the Palm Court. He told them who we were and just as he did so another man hurried along to the table. The others deferred to him and it turned out that he was Inspector Naish. He took us aside and sat us down at a table on the far side of the room; he explained what appeared to have happened.

  Someone had gone into the gents’ lavatories. One of the cubicle doors was closed but there was clearly blood on the floor coming from the inside. The man had tried to open the door but it would not budge. He banged on the door but had no response. At that he decided to fetch some help. A clerk from reception and a porter went to investigate. The porter, an agile Malay, climbed the door frame and saw over the top that a man was slumped back on the lavatory seat fully clothed but bleeding profusely from the neck. Together all three of them managed to force the door open. They found Raoul Gimenez sitting back with his jugular vein severed. A razor-sharp six-inch blade had fallen to the floor at the side of the pan. Raoul had killed himself.