Fatal Ally

by Tim Sebastian

  And yet they sat for several hours on the floor outside her room, knowing instinctively what it was. Two old people, holding hands in the darkness, listening to their daughter’s anguish. It had been many years since fear had walked into their home and spread its shadow across their lives.

  They knew all too well what lay in store.

  Lydia sat in her car outside the Residence and wondered why the memories had hit her now. Thirty years had passed. Thirty years since she had denounced Sam, as he had wanted. Thirty years since she had made her peace with the Communist system, already in its dying years.

  She had never seen or heard of him again. He was erased from Soviet society as he had known he would be on that far-off summer day in Moscow’s Park Dubki.

  But people had come to her over the years and mentioned his name and asked for the occasional service – and she had willingly provided it.

  For Sam. She told herself. Always and only for Sam.

  Even when she looked inside her husband’s briefcase and photographed the occasional document – as she would do again today – it was not to do harm to him. She loved him and respected him. But she felt she owed a service to Sam, who had sacrificed so much and to the little community that he had built for her.

  Sam, who had promised that one day he’d buy her a glass of tea in Jerusalem.

  MOSCOW

  ‘First floor, Dom Knigi – House of Books. Ten a.m.’

  Arkady shut off the mobile he’d been given and removed the battery. When he got outside, he’d break it up and throw away the pieces.

  The conversation with the Englishman had taken no more than twenty seconds.

  Arkady arrived ten minutes early, mingling with the Saturday shoppers. Outside, the temperature had been a generous minus fifteen, but the heat in the store felt instantly oppressive. He took off his shapka, brushed down his thick grey hair and picked his way to the Antiquarian section. It was crowded.

  Muscovites had always read voraciously even during Soviet times. They still did, scared perhaps that the new books might disappear one night and the drab curtain of state censorship would descend again.

  Of course anything was possible here. Russia, he thought, had forever been on the brink of something, mostly terrible, occasionally less so. But it was better not to hope. That was how most people got through it. Hardship wasn’t what destroyed you, it was hope – hope that gnawed away inside you, pretending you could be someone else and that a better future lay in sight.

  The way I’m hoping now, he thought.

  As he turned around, looking for the contact, he felt a sudden rush of fear. But he didn’t know why. His eyes toured the sales floor, the stairs, a crowd of children, a mum and dad, two army veterans. And then he knew what had triggered it. The face three metres away, flabby, nondescript, nothing to get a handle on – the grey sharp eyes, constantly moving.

  What had they always said? Look for the eyes and the hands. If they’re out of sync you have a watcher. Yes, there was a book in his hand, but his eyes had gone for a walk somewhere else. A real amateur.

  Is that all I rate these days?

  In that moment Arkady could feel the crush of people behind him. A new crowd must have surged inside from the cold. At first the voice was so low that he didn’t even think it was speaking to him. The words barely uttered.

  ‘Don’t turn round … go on reading … They’re on board – you’ll get an invite to a party at the UN. Old colleague’s retirement ceremony – nice and jolly – just like old times. When it comes, apply for your exit papers. Party’s in two weeks.’

  ‘I need to hurry. Need to go sooner.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Arkady waited a full minute before turning round. The flabby face had gone. Had he imagined it?

  It wasn’t till he got outside and felt for his gloves that he realized a new mobile had been pushed into his pocket.

  And he couldn’t help the shocking burst of hope that gripped him full force, deep down inside – the first time in so many years.

  ‘I may be leaving soon.’ He stood just inside the doorway.

  ‘You left a long time ago.’

  ‘I came to see if you wanted anything.’

  Yelena snorted. ‘I want to re-run my life, without a creep like you playing a part in it.’

  She was sitting at the old kitchen table, the one they had always eaten off and fought at and once, just once, a thousand years ago, had used for making love. The kitchen was strewn with boxes and books.

  A pile of newspapers lay in front of her. The light was streaming in from the window behind her but he knew she wasn’t well. Years of arthritis had slanted her head permanently to the left, her back was bent, the voice rough and wheezy.

  ‘You still smoking?’ he asked.

  She took off the thick, black-rimmed glasses, rubbed her eyes and made for the stove.

  ‘You’ll get tea, nothing else. Understand? Then you can fuck off.’

  He nodded and sat down where he’d always sat, at the head of the table. Same foul-mouthed ex-wife. Same threadbare cushion, same tatty lino on the floor. Probably the same cockroaches, he thought.

  ‘So your fat friends in the KGB are letting you out of the cage,’ she grinned and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m going to a ceremony at the UN. They invited me. Old colleague retiring. It’s going to be a big event …’

  ‘So why should I care? I haven’t seen you in months.’ She looked down at her skirt, discovered a white mark and began trying to rub it off with a handkerchief.

  Arkady studied her for a moment. She had never cared about her appearance. The black skirt, threadbare and misshapen was probably as old as she was. And the once dancing, pushy, rebellious eyes that had been so hard to leave behind were watery and tired. ‘I don’t know what will happen afterwards. I may travel a little …’

  ‘You may travel,’ she mimicked. ‘Oh no … no, no, no.’ She began to laugh. ‘Travel? You? That’s funny. No, no. You’re not travelling. You’re going to make a run for it, aren’t you? You’re going to run and run till your stupid little legs can’t run any further.’ The smile died suddenly. ‘What the fuck do I care anyway? Go and become Pope … who gives a shit?’

  She replaced her glasses and began leafing through the newspapers on the table.

  ‘I wanted to ask you something.’ She didn’t reply. ‘I want to know if you’d look after Vasya, my dog. I’ll leave money for his food, bills and things. He means …’ He didn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Fuck you and the dog.’ She put down the newspaper and turned to face him full on for the first time. ‘You have to be clinically insane, coming here and asking favours from me. Arrogant shit!’

  Arkady got to his feet. ‘There was a time when you cared for me, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Don’t go there, Arkady – that time ended long ago. It ended when you weaseled your way up the Party ladder, stuffed yourself full of Party caviar and screwed all the Party whores. Don’t bring me “there-was-a-time-when” stories. You made your choice and I’m glad I don’t know half the things you did.’

  ‘I was young …’

  ‘So? We were both young and I had the bad luck to fall for a piss-head who fancied himself as a big shot in the Party and told me he’d change it from within. Just a little patience, Yelena. Just a little patience as they invaded Czechoslovakia and Afghanistan, just a little patience as they murdered their way through the ranks of dissidents and Chechens and anyone who stood up to them. Just a little patience as they lied their stupid heads off to everybody, got rich and chucked anyone with a brain into jail. You know what? I got through my rations of patience and now there isn’t any left. And certainly not for you, so just get out of here and don’t come back. I don’t want to see you again.’

  He pulled on his coat, turned towards the narrow corridor and then stopped.

  ‘I need to tell you something else.’
r />   ‘What?’

  ‘They might come asking questions after I’ve gone …’

  For a moment, she didn’t answer. The eyelids seemed to have closed but he couldn’t be sure. Yelena could always switch off the outward signs of life, make you believe that no one was home. But it was just an illusion. Her mind remained as formidable as ever, even if the body had slackened and slipped around her.

  Mathematics had been her life, teaching it – her passion. That was why they had kicked her out of Moscow State University when she was at the height of her powers, winning international prizes, beating the American computers at their own game. All of it, because she wouldn’t play along, wouldn’t join the other KGB wives, wouldn’t mouth the slogans. And worse, didn’t care if they trusted her or not.

  She would have worked out by herself that they would be coming to ‘talk’ to her, once he had gone. You don’t live through the Soviet Union without knowing what it means when the KGB calls round for a chat.

  ‘Goodbye Yelena.’ He spoke to her back.

  There was silence for a moment.

  ‘Bring me the dog,’ she said quietly, ‘then you can say goodbye.’

  Arkady smiled.

  She turned to face him. ‘Don’t look like that – I’m a fool. Always have been. Who else would have married you in the first place?’ She pushed him towards the door. ‘And when they come here, your old friends, I’ll do what I always did – I’ll laugh in their fucking faces.’

  LONDON

  The church was almost empty when she slipped inside. An hour before Evensong.

  Margo sat in one of the pews near the back. She knew it well. They’d always taken the same one at the Christmas Eve carol services when she’d been a child … Mum, Dad – her brother Anthony, always late.

  The memories lay thick around her.

  In the choir stalls a sextant began fiddling with prayer books. Far away she could hear hard heels on ancient flagstones, the slamming of a gate and then the silence returned.

  She bent forward and shut her eyes.

  Every day I lie to everyone in my life. I lied to Jimmy, my fiancé. I lie to my neighbours and friends. Only here do I whisper the truth. I sit in a public place and I tell God what I’m about to do or what I’ve done. I open up all the files – the secret, the top secret, even the handwritten stuff that never gets filed. I show it all to him and he never replies.

  If I believe in God, how can I go on doing what I do?

  Margo opened her eyes, scanning the long, silent aisle all the way to the altar.

  She thought of the times she had almost said no to the Service. She thought of a life in the Middle East that she had helped extinguish, a reputation she had ruined, a rumour she had set rolling that had sparked a dozen killings in different countries. She thought of Mikhail.

  Why had she crossed her own red lines? Sense of duty? Weakness?

  Each time, of course, the Service had prompted her with ‘compelling reasons’. National security, safety of the realm, the public interest – they never hesitated to use the really grand phrases when they thought you might waver.

  And when you were in the office, out there by Vauxhall Cross with the view of Parliament and the Palace of Westminster – London’s money-shot, Britain in all its glory – you could see the logic, understand the imperatives.

  Not here, though.

  Not with Christ up there on the Cross, the bearded God of Love looking down from the clouds and all the scriptures screaming at you to forgive your neighbour. Not quite so compelling anymore.

  She sat up, looked around the pews, but nothing was moving.

  He’d be a bad man, she told herself. Arkady Mazurin would have plenty of blood on his hands.

  But it wasn’t her task to judge him.

  You have a job to do, so do it.

  Abruptly, she stood up and made for the door. She was angry with herself for coming to the church. God wasn’t the bloody man from Occupational Health. He wasn’t interested in her state of mind. He’d written the rules a long time ago, sent them down the mountain and told the human race to get on with it.

  And in his own way, Manson had done the same. The job he’d given her seemed straightforward, almost routine. And yet for the first time in many years Margo was frightened – and she knew damn well why.

  WASHINGTON DC

  Harry Jones looked round the Oval Office and wondered about the liars who had sat there before him.

  Nobody came here to lie about small things. Lies in this room were always grand affairs with the power to derail history, to start wars, ruin careers, wreck lives around the globe.

  And now he would tell one himself – the first of many, he reckoned. Because there’s no such thing as a single lie. And with each one that followed the price would rise.

  He looked down at his notes and waited for the president to finish his phone call. It was a scheduled conversation with the British prime minister. The two would be meeting at a Nato conference in Brussels before the end of the month and it was time to set the goals and the methods to achieve them.

  ‘We don’t seem to be on the same page yet,’ the president was saying. ‘We’ll need to get our guys to start working on some of the differences. This has to be sewn up in a few days, if we’re to make any headway in Brussels.’

  He put down the receiver and stared across the desk at Harry. ‘Fucking Brits.’ He sighed, shuffled his notes and came across to his armchair opposite Harry.

  ‘You don’t look in good shape, my friend.’

  Harry sat up and cleared his throat. ‘There’s no nice way to say this. Our mission into Syria – it’s gone badly wrong. They made the crossing from Turkey a week ago, met the guide, as arranged, from one of the rebel groups and then went silent. The satellite tracked them to within twelve miles of their first rendezvous – which was on schedule – and then the trackers went dead. So did three out of four of the security guards.’

  ‘Jesus, Harry.’ The president slammed his fist on the arm of the chair. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We don’t know. All we do know is that the bodies turned up in the hands of a different group. We even had to buy them to get them back. Doesn’t get much worse.’

  The president was shaking his head. ‘I seem to remember months of planning went into this – we even brought in outside contractors, some of those characters outside the beltway. Security was paramount. That’s why we did it this way for Chrissake. What are these guys telling you now?’

  ‘They don’t know, sir. They’re checking. We’re pulling in every asset we can find, asking the allies for help.’

  The tone of the conversation had changed. Harry could sense it. Death always changed the mood in the Oval Office. It overrode friendship and camaraderie; rank and status. It humbled everyone – from the commander-in-chief down.

  ‘Dammit Harry.’ The president got up and went back to his desk. ‘If we’d gone through the Agency …’

  ‘The result would have been the same. Agency networks have been inoperable almost from day one – they’ve lost all their key Syrian assets, bar two or three. It’s been a massacre …’

  ‘And what would you call this?’ he picked up the phone, then replaced the receiver. ‘We have two survivors, right?’

  ‘We don’t know. We have two people who are unaccounted for. That means—’

  ‘I know what it means, Harry. I know what that means.’

  Jones removed two pictures from his file. On top was a boyish figure in uniform – the file said he was twenty-three – but he looked much younger. He couldn’t bring himself to turn the other picture.

  The president took the papers from him. ‘This woman is the group leader?’

  ‘Yes. Mai Haddad. Syrian American.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean, how resourceful is she, how professional, did she go rogue on us, was she bought, could someone have used her family as a lever?’

&
nbsp; Harry shook his head. ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we know her inside out. Ten years in the intelligence community, one of the best minds …’

  ‘You know her?’ The president was staring straight at him.

  ‘I met her briefly. She’s pretty impressive.’

  ‘Of course.’ The president opened his mouth – but seemed to change his mind.

  ‘You were going to say something?’

  ‘It’ll keep.’ The president took off his glasses and waved them at Harry – his signal to be left in peace. ‘Let me know when you get something on this.’

  Back in his office, he tried looking at the intelligence digests, the crises in progress, the crises to come, but the words didn’t make sense.

  Only once had he met her here in the White House. By then, they had been together a dozen times and Harry saw nothing but the black curling hair, always rebelling, always untidy. The chipped front tooth. The eyes that had seen far more than they should have.

  They had both lied about what they did, meeting as they had in a bookstore café. A chance look, a neutral smile. He said he was a teacher. She was into computers. Same the next day. Only by then the smiles weren’t so neutral. And then a coffee. And dinner. And Harry was careering down the slope.

  ‘I know who you are,’ she had told him at their second encounter. ‘I’ve seen your picture.’

  ‘But I don’t know who you are.’

  ‘Find out,’ she smiled gently. ‘All those resources. Have me followed. Tap my phone. Do what you do …’

  But he hadn’t. She was separate from all his other lives. A gift way beyond his imagination or experience.

  ‘Mai, I love you.’ Fourth meeting.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she told him.

  He had said it again at the next meeting, wanting it, willing it to be true.