A Spy's Life

by Henry Porter

  ‘I see,’ said The Bird. ‘Well, let’s keep this to ourselves. A private drink at the races, eh?’ Harland smiled. It would be good to see both of them again.

  The Neurological Unit to which Tomas had been transferred was contained in an unpromising red-brick hospital in Bloomsbury. Harland arrived there as it was getting dark. The lights shone out on a deserted pavement; there was very little sign of activity. A building in a coma, thought Harland.

  He knew perfectly well that he should have summoned the energy over the weekend to visit Tomas, but the analogy with his own terror of imprisonment and pain was too close for him.

  Dr Smith-Canon appeared soon after Harland announced himself at the reception and insisted they go straight away to Tomas’s room. He said progress was good, considering the severity of his injuries, but Harland should prepare himself to see Tomas – it was an unsettling sight at first.

  He was led into a soft-lit room. A nurse rose from a chair, clutching a magazine to her breast. She looked from Smith-Canon to Tomas and back again and said there had been no change in his condition. The doctor nodded and, sensing Harland’s hesitation, guided him by the elbow to the side of the bed.

  Tomas’s upper body was raised at an angle of thirty degrees. His head was encased in a helm of bandages and elsewhere there were pads and dressings which marked the places where the bullets had entered. A tracheotomy collar had been fitted to his neck to allow him to breathe. Tubes ran to his nose and mouth and from under the covers to his stomach. The machines beside and behind the head of the bed hissed and sucked and occasionally gasped in a rhythm of their own.

  Smith-Canon said Tomas needed constant attention at this stage. For instance, it was necessary to prevent the tracheotomy tube from becoming blocked by mucus. But Harland’s attention was distracted by the air in the room which was warm and moist and overlaid by a brisk, medical odour.

  Smith-Canon took hold of Tomas’s right hand and felt the pulse. Then he bent over his face and shone a torch into an eye which he held open by pulling the eyelid upwards with his fingertips. Harland saw the light glance through a very small, expressionless pupil. The doctor let the eyelid drop and turned to Harland.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no sign of consciousness but that can be deceptive: often a patient will creep towards consciousness and although he appears to be dead to the world he can be fully aware of his surroundings.’

  He talked Harland through the equipment around Tomas’s bed, explaining that he would have the tracheotomy for many months yet, probably for all his life. For the moment he was being fed by a tube which went straight into his stomach, but this might have to be changed over time because of the risk of the patient aspirating regurgitated food. Arrangements had been made to cope with the bowel and bladder, and these too would need to be reviewed.

  Harland looked at his son’s face. It wasn’t quite vacant. There was definitely a look of his mother, and in the crease of his forehead he read an expression of frozen apprehension. He wondered whether this would be lifelong, but he didn’t ask the doctor. He was too overwhelmed by the sense that Tomas, whatever his problems, had been effectively snatched from him just as he had come to accept him as his son.

  The doctor looked at Harland sympathetically.

  ‘I know, it’s all rather unpleasant. But it’s best that you’re fully aware of the situation. He’s going to need an awful lot of care, and there are many hurdles along the way which I can explain to you in a moment. But first I’d like you to do something for me. I want you to sit and talk to him. I think it would perhaps be best if you did this alone.’

  He nodded to the nurse with a smile. When she had left, he said, ‘I believe it’s time we started using his real name. Of course I shall maintain his file and records in the name of Lars Edberg, but if we continue to address him as Lars, he may simply fail to recognise it. On the other hand, his real name is bound to mean something to him. The same may apply to use of the English language. I don’t know how well he spoke English, but even if he was a fluent speaker, I believe his birth language would be better. His mother – have you had any luck tracing her?’

  Harland shook his head.

  ‘Well, it’s imperative that she’s found. When he comes round, his understanding will be not impaired, but he won’t be able to communicate the slightest wish. It’s an extremely frightening experience and can rapidly lead to depression. This is often expressed by the patients locking themselves in further by refusing to attempt to communicate – it’s the only thing they can control. But there are several ways for him to communicate – for instance the use of an eyelid, or the vertical movement of a pupil. Locked-in patients can also be trained to alter the activity in their brain so that they can move a cursor on a computer screen.’ He paused and glanced at Tomas. ‘But this is all a little way down the road yet. The main aim now is to get him awake. So would you sit here for a few moments and talk about things that would mean something to him?’

  Harland was aware that the very last thing he wanted was to be left alone with Tomas’s lifeless form. In some way he was repelled by what he saw and that filled him with guilt.

  ‘I know it will be awkward at first,’ said Smith-Canon. ‘But open your heart to him. Talk about things that mean a lot to you. The nurse will be just outside if you need assistance and when you’ve finished she’ll know where to find you. Then we’ll have a chat.’ He smiled and departed.

  Harland moved to the chair at the head of the bed and sat for a few moments, wondering how the hell to start. He cursed himself that he had asked Tomas so very little about his life.

  ‘Tomas? I hope you can hear me. The doctor says that you may be able to even though you’re in a very deep sleep.’ He stopped, leaned forward to the boy’s head and fought the fleeting fear of intimacy. His mind went back to the villa in Prague. How odd it was that now he spoke quietly into a person’s ear, a person who could not interrupt, object or walk away. ‘It’s difficult for me to know what to say because I realise I was far too wary when we met for the first time. I asked you nothing about yourself … nothing about you … and so I don’t know much about your life. If you can hear this, I’d like you to know how much I regret my attitude. I also want you to understand that I accept you as my son.’ He faltered for a moment. His eyes came to rest on Tomas’s hands. The fingers were long and delicate, almost like a woman’s. He was shocked that he had not noticed them before.

  He started again. ‘Perhaps you’d like to hear how I met your mother. I know her as Eva, but she has a real name, which you know and I don’t. I was a young man – younger than you are now – and on my first posting abroad. It was actually more of a training session with a little work thrown in. It wasn’t difficult and I had a lot of time to get to know Rome and make friends. You know how we met because you told me about it. Your mother has remembered it more or less right. We were in a restaurant and I sat next to her and by the end of the evening I was lost to her. It’s impossible to talk about these things without sounding like an idiot. But I was smitten. From then on we spent a lot of time together, but because we were both working in intelligence we had to keep our relationship secret. In the end we found it was easier to leave Rome at the weekends. We stayed in some pretty run-down places. One time we went to Ancona, a resort on the Adriatic, for a couple of days. That was a happy time. We could just see the Dalmatian coast from our bedroom window. The Romans used to call it Illyria. We promised each other that one day we’d go there together. Some promise. I suppose we both knew neither of us would be able to keep it.’ He paused. ‘God, I wish I was better at this. I feel I’m failing you again. Perhaps the doctor is right that you would respond better to Czech. That’s why I’m going to try to trace your mother and bring her here. That’s what I’m going to be doing over the next few days so I won’t be able to come and see you. But when I get back I will come and we can work out a lot of things.’

  At that moment Tomas’s head jerked backwards, and his entire bo
dy seemed to be racked by an electric current. His arms flew into the air, his fingers splayed in fright. One leg kicked out, the other folded towards his stomach. Harland watched horrified as the muscles and veins just beneath the tracheotomy collar bulged and Tomas’s face went puce. Then all four extremities began a slow rhythmic motion. Harland leapt up, tipping the chair over, and called out.

  ‘He’s waking. He’s moving. He’s coming to.’ Before the words were out the nurse was through the door and pushing him aside. She snatched a syringe on a tray nearby, held it up to the light then injected Tomas in the buttock. The movement in the legs and arms began to subside and his head slipped back to the pillow.

  ‘Why aren’t his eyes open?’ asked Harland. He turned and saw Smith-Canon.

  ‘That was an involuntary spasm,’ he said quietly. ‘He’ll be all right in a few moments. It’s one of the problems with locked-in syndrome, though it usually occurs when the patient is conscious. I think we ought to leave Nurse Roberts here to deal with this. Everything will be fine in a few minutes.’

  They went to Smith-Canon’s room and sat on a small sofa. Harland felt exhausted.

  ‘This kind of episode can be avoided once we get used to the patient,’ said Smith-Canon. ‘In each case we have to learn about the kind of things which set off a spasm. Sometimes it’s associated with breathing difficulties or the use of a tracheotomy, other times with problems in the bowel.’ He sensed Harland didn’t want to hear. ‘Okay, I can see you’ve had enough for one day.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harland absently.

  ‘Look, I’m not quite sure how to put this. But I had a visit over the weekend from a man called Walter Vigo. I must say I didn’t much take to him.’

  ‘Yes, I know him. What did he want?’

  ‘It wasn’t easy to say. He was rather an oblique fellow, if you know what I mean. He wouldn’t tell me what he did precisely, but he did stress that he was dealing with an urgent matter of national security. He was interested in Tomas’s identity and wondered if I had any clue about it. He asked if I had been contacted by any relations. And he was particularly interested in his condition – whether he was likely to die and what the future held if he lived.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told him that it was confidential information and that it was none of his business. However, I thought you ought to know. Clearly it has some bearing on the things you were telling me the other day. I think he thought that Tomas was going to be out of action and that he was no longer of much concern to him.’

  ‘Thanks for that. Walter Vigo is a senior member of MI6. I’m not sure where they stand on all this. But you’re right, his interest does have a bearing on what we were talking about.’

  ‘Yes, I thought as much. Look, there’s one other thing.’ He opened the drawer of his desk. ‘Bearing in mind your caution about revealing your son’s identity, I decided not to hand this in to the police.’ He placed a light Terylene wallet on the table. ‘This was in your son’s jacket. Actually, I believe it was in the lining. At any rate they missed it. I think it contains a lot that will help you.’

  Harland opened it and found a smaller leather card-holder which held Eva’s three identity cards and a couple of credit cards in the name of Edberg. There was some money – ten fifty-pound notes and a couple of hundred-dollar bills. ‘Thank you. I can’t hide the fact that I’m extremely relieved that you didn’t give these to Vigo or the police. It might have proved very difficult for me to trace his mother without them.’

  ‘Yes, I could see that. But you are, after all, his next of kin and I couldn’t imagine that the police would have a better use for it.’

  Harland rose to leave.

  ‘I hope you find her, Mr Harland. It’s very important for the boy.’

  ‘I will. And thanks again.’

  16

  A DAY AT THE RACES

  Harland caught the 10.30 Race Special from Paddington and arrived in time for the first race. But he did not see any sign of Macy Harp or The Bird until the middle of the afternoon. He hung about, watching the crowd – an untroubled mix of gentry, spivs and local farmers.

  Before the 2.35 race he made his way through a wide tunnel which ran under the stands towards the paddock in the hope of spotting them. He felt a tug at his arm. It was Macy Harp who had darted from a doorway in the tunnel. ‘This way,’ he said with a conspiratorial smile. ‘The Bird’s got a private box. None of yer hoi polloi for Cuthbert Avocet these days.’

  Macy hadn’t changed a bit – a roguish red face, dancing eyes and quick, furtive manner.

  They found The Bird positioned at the front of the box with his binoculars trained on the crowd below. Without removing them, he flapped a hand in Harland’s direction and said, ‘Bobby, grab yourself a drink. I recommend a whisky mac on a day like this.’

  After a few moments he swivelled round and stood up. ‘Good grief, Bobby, you look dreadful. Is that what aid work does for a man?’

  ‘And a few other things too,’ said Harland.

  ‘So I gather. There’s a good view from up here. We’ve been watching you plod hither and thither. We felt we ought to make sure that you hadn’t been followed here. There’re one or two suspicious characters down there but I think your coat tails are clean.’

  ‘They should be, after the palaver I went through leaving my sister’s house in London.’

  ‘Good,’ said The Bird, with an encouraging smile. ‘And I know you too well to ask whether you called from a safe phone yesterday.’

  Macy planted a drink in one of Harland’s hands and a large chunk of fruitcake in the other. ‘Get that down you, laddie. It’s Veronica Harp’s renowned Christmas cake.’

  They both picked up their binoculars and turned to the racecourse. ‘Ours is the blue and maroon colours,’ said Cuth. ‘Maltese cross on a blue background. Can’t miss her. She’s a gorgeous animal but doesn’t usually pull her finger out in the cold.’

  Harland tried to show an interest in the fortunes of Manse Lady but was distracted by the realisation that both The Bird and Macy were extremely well turned out – tailored tweed suits, and, in Macy’s case, a coat with chocolate brown velvet collar and expensive brogues polished to a military shine. Harland hadn’t heard much of them in the last ten years but he knew that they’d extended their freelance interests in Eastern Europe into a number of enterprises that made use of their contacts behind the old Iron Curtain. They’d been into caviar, lumber, truck parts, aluminium, engineering tools – the lot.

  The field laboured home with Manse Lady struggling up the hill to take third place. The Bird and Macy shouted a great deal, but to no effect.

  ‘Damned jockey,’ said The Bird. ‘Thinks we’re paying him to go on a nature ramble.’

  Macy snapped his binocular case shut.

  They had another drink and Harland began to feel the warmth of the whisky mac in his feet.

  ‘You two seemed to have done well for yourselves,’ he said. ‘Business is good, I gather.’

  ‘Can’t complain,’ said Macy, stroking a patch of blond stubble on his chin. ‘Can we?’

  ‘As you know, Bobby,’ Cuth added, ‘nature always smiled on us, now fate has joined her.’

  They looked and spoke like a pair of amateurs, thought Harland, yet in their field they were unmatched. They were both in shape and The Bird in particular would still present a formidable challenge to anyone unwise enough to take him on.

  ‘So, we hear you’ve been having quite a time of it,’ said Macy. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘Well, let’s get something sorted out first,’ said The Bird. ‘You said you would bring something for us – some encrypted material. We have a friend on the course who might care to take a look at it now.’

  ‘Really! How on earth did you fix that up?’

  ‘We didn’t. He’s always here. Horse fanatic. Works at GCHQ and sometimes moonlights by operating the photofinish camera. Good sort
– listens to telephone conversations for a living and can decipher practically anything – except, of course, a racecard. But steady as a brass bedstead otherwise. Won’t talk.’

  ‘So where do I find him?’

  ‘You don’t. Macy will take it to him now. I told him that he was likely to need a computer. Is that right?’

  Harland handed Macy the two discs, one containing the material from Ollins, the other from Sally Griswald’s e-mail. He explained they were a pair and that they only worked in tandem.

  ‘Now,’ said The Bird, ‘tell me what’s been going on. I know that you’ve been shot at and that you’ve been in an air crash and I gather you were jumped by some heathens in the UN building. What else?’

  ‘You’re well informed. How did you know about the UN thing?’

  ‘Word gets about. Look, why don’t you tell me the whole bloody lot? The rest of the card’s not up to much so we’ve got plenty of time.’

  As Harland spoke, Cuth listened closely, his resourceful eyes darting from Harland’s face to a hamper where he picked at the fruitcake. When Harland showed him Eva’s identity cards he held each one up to the light, sniffed it and flexed it. Then he handed them back and returned to his chair to rock on the back two legs, his hands clasped round the back of his head. Harland talked for half an hour. He brought the story to a close with a description of Tomas’s condition, and explained that he urgently needed to find Eva.

  The Bird lifted a slender cigarette case from an inside pocket.

  ‘Hell, Bobby, you’re a dark horse. I knew you had some Czech connections, but I didn’t realise you had a bloody family there.’ He laughed, then his face grew serious. ‘Vigo’s interest puzzles me. I can’t believe he’s really concerned about you boffing some Czech teenager back in the Dark Ages. Did you give the Czechs anything?’

  ‘Nothing of value. The odd bit that I knew they already had. I worked it to our advantage – you know how it was.’