A Spy's Life

by Henry Porter

  ‘I will try to trace her in the Czech Republic. But it’s going to be difficult. She has changed her name several times.’

  ‘I see,’ said Smith-Canon.

  ‘If I leave the country, I will put you in touch with my sister who will be able to get in touch with me wherever I am. Her name is Harriet Bosey.’

  ‘Right, shall we agree on this, then – that your son remains here until he is out of immediate danger? I will then arrange for him to be transferred to my hospital and we will begin to assess the situation.’

  Harland gave him his telephone numbers and dragged himself out of the chair. His arm still hurt like hell but the pain had faded as he learned of the true nature of Tomas’s condition. He walked back down the hallway, away from the operating theatres, to where he knew the police would be waiting for him.

  14

  THE BITTER MADELEINE

  Harland told two officers about the shooting and his escape along the riverbank. They said that one of the policemen had been killed, the other would recover but there was a likelihood of his not being able to walk again. After twenty minutes he began to feel faint. They called a doctor, who said he must have immediate rest, and he was driven to Harriet’s house where two police guards were posted outside.

  He slept until six-thirty that evening when Harriet woke him with a concise version of what had plainly been an elaborate Christmas lunch, which she brought to him on a tray. She didn’t need to ask what had happened because she had learned all she wanted from the police guards to whom she had given lunch in the kitchen. There was also a detailed report on the evening news that made much of the tragedy of the young constable’s death on Christmas Eve. Harland was sure there would be a lot more coverage. It would only be a matter of time before his name was released and someone linked him with the La Guardia crash. Then there was the connection to be made between the death of a young florist in a North London flat and the shooting of her boyfriend.

  Robin joined them, stealing into the room with a stage tiptoe. He seemed genuinely horrified by the account of Harland’s conversation with the surgeon and said that he would do anything to help with Tomas’s care. All bills would be taken care of. Harriet touched him on the hand and smiled. In that instant Harland saw why their marriage worked.

  ‘One thing bothers me,’ she said, turning back to her brother. ‘How did they trace you to the embankment? They must have followed you from here, I suppose.’

  ‘No,’ said Harland emphatically. ‘They would have shot him outside the house, no matter how many people were around. They were obviously desperate to kill him.’

  ‘Then they must have waited for you to join him before the shooting. After all, they’d tried to do away with you in New York.’

  ‘That assumes a lot of things, the first of which was that they knew that it was me at Cleopatra’s Needle. The second point is that they didn’t make any real attempt to shoot me once I fled down those steps.’

  ‘Not half, they didn’t,’ said Robin, looking at the bandage on his shoulder.

  ‘No, I mean it. These were professional killers. If it had mattered to them, they would have gone after me.’

  ‘But they saw or heard the police coming and made their getaway,’ said Robin. ‘So they couldn’t chase after you.’

  ‘No, that doesn’t quite work either. The first shots were fired by a relatively quiet sniper’s rifle. Only when they came across the road did they use a machine gun, which could be heard. That’s what drew the attention of the police car. You see, I didn’t hear its siren until I was on the riverbank.’

  ‘What’s all this add up to, then?’ asked Robin.

  ‘Bobby thinks that they haven’t made the connection between him and Tomas,’ said Harriet, ‘or at any rate that they didn’t identify him last night. That’s right, isn’t it, Bobby?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why didn’t they shoot before you arrived?’ said Harriet, then she clapped her hands and answered her own question. ‘Because they had only just got there themselves! And that’s interesting, Bobby, because although they had only just arrived they knew enough about the meeting to position themselves across the road in that park. Right? And that can mean only one thing: they’d listened to the phone call that Tomas made to you. So, if we assume that they didn’t know who he was calling – and we’ve already agreed that there are good reasons to suppose that – it means they must have been monitoring his cellphone. They knew his number – that’s the only solution.’

  ‘You could be right,’ said Harland. ‘And it would have been a simple matter to extract that number from his girlfriend, or even from some sort of record they found in the flat – a phone bill perhaps.’

  Robin had sat down on the end of the bed. ‘But doesn’t it require considerable resources to do a thing like that? I mean, intercepting a particular mobile number needs a lot of sophisticated equipment. That’s the sort of operation GCHQ goes in for – you know, collaring underworld barons in Marbella.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, you do need pretty comprehensive equipment,’ said Harland slowly, and he thought of Luc Bézier and the phone-tracking operation that had lured the French special forces team to a hotel in the Balkans.

  ‘Well, perhaps you should point all this out to the police,’ said Robin, pleased with his contribution. ‘They’re downstairs – two rather senior detectives. That’s why I came up. I can tell them to go away if you want. After the last week and a bit, you’ve got every excuse to take a night’s rest without being bothered.’

  Harland said he would be down in a few minutes. When Robin had gone, Harriet helped him to put his shirt on.

  ‘You’re not going to tell them any of this,’ she said.

  ‘Of course not, Hal.’

  ‘And you aren’t going to let them know that Tomas is your son.’

  ‘No, but they may work that out for themselves. And if the police don’t, I’m sure Vigo will. He won’t have forgotten seeing a young man disappearing out of the door. And since he’s already claiming I spied for the Czechs and that I had an affair with Eva Houresh, it may not take him long to work out who Tomas is.’

  ‘Which will make the allegations about your past much more difficult to deny.’

  Harland nodded silently.

  ‘What a terrible mess this is, Bobby.’

  He went downstairs and found the two officers waiting in the sitting room. A short man with alert eyes and a brisk manner swivelled on his heels and gave his name as Commander Maurice Lighthorn. The other, a rather jaundiced fellow with watery eyes and a moustache, introduced himself as Chief Inspector Roger Navratt. Harland sat down but the officers remained standing.

  ‘How are you feeling, sir?’ asked Lighthorn.

  ‘Better, now I’ve had some sleep.’

  ‘And the injury. How’s that doing? Much pain?

  ‘No, but they expect it to heal quickly – it’s a surface wound.’

  ‘In that case, we were wondering if you felt up to accompanying us to the station.’

  ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘No, sir, but we do need your help and there’s a lot to go through in a case like this. It will be easier at the station.’

  Harland agreed to go, although both Robin and Harriet tried to persuade Lighthorn to wait until the next day.

  Lighthorn listened, unmoved. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, madam, but this is a very serious incident and we have reason to believe that there is a link to another murder. Two people are dead, two very seriously injured. In my book, these circumstances require an urgent response.’

  They drove to West End Central station where business was slow. A few uniformed officers sat dejectedly waiting for the end of their shifts. Lighthorn explained that the investigation was being carried out at New Scotland Yard, but that they hadn’t acquired all the space they needed yet. Lighthorn’s appearance galvanised things and they were quickly shown into one of the station’s interview rooms.

  Coffee was
produced. Navratt switched the interview tape recorder on and formally identified all those in the room.

  ‘Mr Harland,’ Lighthorn began after Navratt nodded, ‘we have your account of the shooting which will form part of your statement in due course. What I want to do now is to ask you about your relationship with the man known as Lars Edberg. Can I start by asking how long you’ve known him?’

  ‘I met him for the first time in New York last week.’

  ‘In what circumstances?’

  ‘Well, we had a few drinks in the bar around the corner from where I live in Brooklyn.’

  ‘Did you meet there?’

  ‘No, we got talking in the street outside my apartment and I offered him a drink.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘More or less. He seemed a friendly young man – very bright and good company.’

  ‘And you had no knowledge of him before that moment.’

  ‘No, I had not set eyes on him or heard his name before that evening.’

  ‘But you seem to have forged a strong relationship in that short time. Would you mind if I asked you the nature of that relationship? You will agree that it’s unusual of a man of your age to strike up a conversation with somebody of Mr Edberg’s age.’

  ‘As I say, he was interesting.’

  ‘And there was – how shall I put it – no sexual motive?’

  Harland shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘However, you were in contact this week after your return to this country.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you aware at any stage that Lars Edberg was travelling on a false passport? No Swedish passport has been issued to a man named Lars Edberg.’

  ‘Only when I read it in the papers yesterday.’

  ‘Did Mr Edberg tell you about the murder of the woman he had been living with – Felicity MacKinlay?’

  ‘Yes, in a phone call two nights ago.’

  ‘Can you describe his state of mind at that time, Mr Harland?’

  ‘It was a very short call and I didn’t have a chance to ask much about it. But I would say that he was extremely upset. I gave him my sister’s address and told him to go there.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Not that evening.’

  ‘When did you next hear from him?’

  ‘Last night when he turned up at my sister’s. It was difficult, though. There was a party on so we agreed to meet later.’

  ‘Last night – Christmas Eve,’ said Lighthorn significantly. ‘That means that when you saw him you were fully aware that the police were looking for him. Because you yourself have just said that you read in the morning papers that Edberg was travelling under a false name. So the question is this: why didn’t you phone the police then, Mr Harland? He was, after all, a major suspect.’

  ‘I wanted to find out what was going on. In fact, I told him when I saw him by the river that sooner or later he would have to explain himself.’

  ‘Still, it was a pity – some would put it a lot stronger – that you didn’t phone the police at that stage. It would almost certainly have saved three people from being shot – four if we include your own injury, sir.’

  ‘Look, I knew that he couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder. I also knew he was frightened.’

  Lighthorn’s eyes darted to Harland’s.

  ‘Are you telling me that from one casual encounter you gained the certainty that this man could not have committed murder? You do know this woman was very brutally tortured before she was killed – tortured, sexually assaulted and executed.’

  ‘I didn’t know the exact details,’ he said.

  ‘But you read enough in the newspapers to know that her death was extremely ugly. Yet you still went to the Embankment to meet this Edberg – a man who you knew to be travelling on a fake passport, who was wanted by the police. That would suggest a very cavalier attitude to your own safety, unless you knew what Edberg was running from. Is that the truth of it? Did Mr Edberg tell you something in New York?’

  ‘No, all I knew was that he believed someone was trying to kill him.’

  ‘Why?’ Again the eyes scanned Harland’s face.

  ‘He made veiled references to the danger he was in, but he did not specify what that danger was.’

  Lighthorn seemed to digest this. In another context Harland would probably have admired his technique. He was clear-headed and possessed an unswerving instinct for the truth. But there was also something of the martinet in him.

  ‘The reason I’m asking you these questions is not because we suspect Mr Edberg. We have ruled him out in the murder inquiry for the very good reason that we know he returned to this country about twenty-four hours after Miss MacKinlay was murdered. A baggage tag on the case that he left in her flat gave us the information on the flights he took. And we have since found the day and time of his departure to New York from another airline. What is significant is that the people who work at Felicity MacKinlay’s flower shop told us that Edberg had said he would help with a large delivery of Christmas trees that day. Then without notice he left. What this suggests is that he left in a hurry and went to the States for a particular purpose. Do you know what that was?’

  Harland shrugged.

  ‘Come along, Mr Harland. You’re an intelligent man – you must have asked him what all this was about?’

  ‘I did, and he was about to tell me when he was shot.’

  ‘Yes, by what appears to be a professional hit man. This was no casual drive-by shooting. This was the work of a top-notch pro who’d been hired to track down this young man. In the process he tortured and executed a young woman, murdered a police constable and crippled another.’ There was genuine anger, genuine indignation in Lighthorn’s manner.

  The door opened and a young plainclothes policeman came in and whispered something to Lighthorn. Navratt looked at Harland, as if to deter him from listening in. Lighthorn left for five minutes then returned with an envelope which he placed on the table.

  ‘In these circumstances,’ said Lighthorn slowly, ‘where a man has been shot at a secret meeting, it is often the case that one of the parties in that meeting has arranged the shooting.’

  ‘What?’ said Harland contemptuously. ‘Are you suggesting that I arranged for the gunman to be there?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Then why on earth would they shoot me? And, second, why would I return to To—’ He said the first syllable of Tomas’s name, stumbled and said the name Lars. ‘Why would I go back and wait for the police to come?’

  Harland was sure Lighthorn had noticed the stumble, although he didn’t pursue it.

  ‘That’s precisely the point I wanted you to make for me. Why in heaven’s name did you go back to the scene of the shooting? I mean, you told the officers in the hospital how you fell down the steps at Cleopatra’s Needle, and how you came across this character St George and then made good your escape. Remember, at this stage you were certain the young man was dead. You also told my officer that you felt for vital signs and there were none. So, I ask again, why would you return to the scene when it presented such obvious dangers? You were certain that Edberg was dead. Surely the most sensible course would have been to run in the opposite direction and find a phone box. Instead you returned to the monument.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t sure he was dead. So I went back to check. By that time I’d heard the siren and —’

  ‘And a lot more gunfire,’ interrupted Lighthorn. ‘That’s what you told my officers.’

  ‘Yes, and a lot more gunfire. So what are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m suggesting that your relationship with this young man was very important to you, important enough for you to race back along the embankment to be with him. Important enough for you to remain outside the operating theatre for an entire night, while you yourself must have been in some pain and suffering from your ordeal in the river.’ He paused to pick up the envelope. ‘I wonder if you would take a look at
this, Mr Harland. It’s a copy of the Daily Telegraph from last week.’ He unfolded the paper and laid it on the table. ‘It was found in Miss MacKinlay’s flat in her recycling bin. As you can see, there’s a large part of the front page missing. One of our officers decided to find out what had been cut out of this newspaper. He contacted the Daily Telegraph library a little while ago – fortunately they are publishing tomorrow – and found that it was the picture of your rescue in the La Guardia air crash last week.’ He let this sink in. ‘I remember the picture myself. You certainly have been through a lot this last week, Mr Harland. If you think about it, Mr Edberg must have cut this picture out of the paper before you say you met him. How do you explain this action?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say? I mean, it’s clear that this newspaper photograph acted as the prompt for Mr Edberg. Within hours of seeing it he was on a flight to New York, in all probability clutching this cutting – there is no sign of it in the flat.’

  ‘Well, we did talk about the crash. He showed tremendous interest in it. Maybe that’s why he stopped me in the street. He did mention that he had seen the picture.’

  ‘Ah, but you’re missing the point. This newspaper picture was the inspiration for Edberg’s dash to New York. He plainly went to speak to you, showing, incidentally, the same devotion that you were later to show on the riverbank to him. This means he must have known where to find you.’ He glanced at Navratt with just a hint of triumph for he knew that this must all be news to Harland. ‘I’ve already had one of our officers check with International Inquiries and it appears that you are not listed in Brooklyn. Answer me this: how would he find you unless he knew where you lived? If he knew where you lived, it’s a reasonable assumption that you had met before last week.’

  ‘All I can say,’ said Harland, ‘is that I never saw him before that night, or spoke to him, or had any type of contact with him. I don’t have the first idea how he traced me, although a determined person would not find it difficult to extract the number out of the United Nations.’