Jigsaw

by Campbell Armstrong

  ‘Mr Pagan?’

  He looked up. The man was young, bright-eyed, fresh-shaved, smelled of cologne. He wore a lapel badge that identified him as a vice-consul, Butterworth, Peter.

  ‘May I see your ID, please?’

  Pagan offered the young man his wallet. Butterworth looked at the photograph. ‘You understand the need for caution, Mr Pagan. We get all kinds of strange people asking to see the Ambassador.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ said Pagan, smiling in an understanding way.

  Butterworth produced a lapel badge which he clipped to Pagan’s coat and identified him as an Authorized Visitor. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

  Pagan rose, followed Butterworth along a corridor carpeted in dark blue; the walls were decorated with photographs of presidents past. Roosevelt, Eisenhower, Harry Truman, Ford: these hung in neat alignment. This was unmistakably American territory. Pagan had the feeling he’d been whisked directly from London into the United States. He wondered what would happen if he suddenly took a wrong turning, slipped away from Butterworth and roamed the hallways, opening closed doors, peering into rooms, looking for visible evidence of The Undertakers. Panic stations. Alarm bells. Armed marines.

  Butterworth said, ‘This way,’ and escorted him inside a lift. The American pushed a button. He said nothing as they travelled up; he looked once at Pagan and smiled in a kindly way. When they got out of the lift they walked another corridor, Butterworth opened a door, a middle-aged woman at a typewriter raised her face and regarded Pagan without any interest, and then, this time in a manner that was almost reverent, Butterworth opened another door.

  Finally. The inner sanctum.

  ‘Frank Pagan, Mr Ambassador,’ Butterworth said, and withdrew.

  William Caan got up from behind his large desk. He held out his hand for Pagan to shake; the grasp was solid and friendly, the contact prolonged.

  ‘I’ve heard about you, of course,’ the Ambassador said. He had the kind of accent Pagan associated with Harvard: flattened vowels, a certain crispness to the way he bit off words.

  Pagan looked at Caan’s impeccable hair, the unblemished skin. He was glossy. You had the feeling rainwater would simply slide off him. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t make an appointment,’ Pagan said, and glanced round the office, which was decorated with framed photographs of more American landscapes. The Blue Ridge Mountains. A vast empty prairie. The red rocks of northern Arizona.

  ‘No problem.’ Caan went back to his chair. ‘Have a seat.’

  Pagan sat down facing the Ambassador. ‘I wanted to say how sorry I was about Al Quarterman,’ he remarked. ‘It was the last thing I expected. I feel responsible.’ He was winging it, he knew, trying to exploit this encounter for anything it was worth.

  ‘I hardly think you can blame yourself,’ Caan said. ‘You were doing your duty. Pursuing a line of inquiry.’

  ‘I thought Al might have some information.’ Pagan gave a little shrug. He needed an opening here, he needed to make a reference of some muted kind to the possibility of odd activities inside the Embassy because what he wanted was to see Caan’s reactions.

  ‘I’ve already discussed this with your Home Secretary. And with your Mr Nimmo. The meeting was cordial, Frank.’

  First name. Nice touch. Pagan looked into the Ambassador’s blue eyes. He had a sudden image of Bill Caan in shirtsleeves and bermuda shorts, presiding over a barbecue, forking burgers and turning them, while happy families played Softball on the lawn.

  The Ambassador reached for a paperweight on his desk, an onyx oval he stroked as if it were an oversized worry bead. ‘I understand the name of Carlotta has entered the frame.’

  Pagan nodded. Nimmo must have chatted freely with Caan. Sharing confidences. Caan was the kind of man with whom Nimmo would want to ingratiate himself. Yes, Mr Ambassador. No, Mr Ambassador.

  Caan said, ‘I was surprised. I thought she’d gone to ground. Are you sure your information is valid?’

  ‘I have good reason to believe it is.’

  ‘But you can’t go into it.’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Caan. He pulled his hand back from the paperweight. ‘If you locate Carlotta, there might be a tug of war. She’s a fugitive, Frank. I’m sure our own authorities would like to put her back where she belongs.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Pagan said. ‘It’s a bridge we’ll have to cross when we come to it.’ He changed the subject. He didn’t want to be steered in the direction of Carlotta, although he was intrigued by the fact Caan had raised her name in the first place and was laying some kind of mild claim to the woman – if she were captured. Perhaps Caan was concerned that Carlotta might have too much to reveal. ‘What kind of work did Bryce Harcourt do here?’

  ‘He was a researcher, but I’m sure you already know that,’ Caan said. ‘A good one too. I understand you had some cockamamie idea he was involved in other activities.’

  ‘It was a line of inquiry, nothing else,’ Pagan said.

  ‘Lines of inquiry can go off at misleading tangents, Frank. They can lead to such things as doors being kicked down, for example,’ Caan said, and smiled. Christ, it was a great smile, Pagan thought. It was confident, open, charming. Caan could make a miser break free his lifetime hoard of coins from under the floorboards. Here, Mr Caan, take it all. Give it to the poor.

  ‘Frank, I run a complex organization here. There is a variety of departments. Immigration. Security. Commerce. I pride myself on knowing exactly what goes on in every room of this building.’

  ‘I don’t dispute it,’ Pagan said. ‘But you can see the complexity of my own problems, I’m sure. Somebody killed Quarterman, and I don’t know why, I don’t know who. People don’t get assassinated for no reason, Mr Ambassador.’

  ‘I can’t help you with that one,’ Caan answered. ‘I’m no cop.’

  ‘My only intention was to ask Quarterman what he knew of Bryce Harcourt’s life,’ Pagan said. ‘Is that reason enough for somebody to kill the man?’

  The Ambassador said, ‘We live in a complicated time, Frank. Something you know only too well yourself. We Americans are often blamed for events in which we were not involved. There are people in the world with grievances against us. There are grudges, and perhaps some of these are justified. I won’t debate that matter here and now. But some people are resentful of us. Sometimes in foreign countries we’re targets of animosity. Diplomats are kidnapped. Killed. I’m sure you know all this. Who can say what grudge somebody bore against Quarterman? He was an American. And in this world, Frank, that alone is often reason enough for murder.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Pagan said. ‘But it’s the timing that bothers me. The fact he was shot in my company. The fact I had certain questions to ask. This worries me, Mr Ambassador.’

  Caan surveyed his office, as if he suspected something were out of place, something moved by a cleaner. ‘I’m as perplexed as you are, Frank. Let me assure you – as I’ve already assured your Home Secretary – that I intend to make a thorough examination of Harcourt’s background, and his relationship with Quarterman. And if I find anything that gives me cause for concern, you will be informed through channels.’

  Through channels, Pagan thought. That meant nothing. Channels were places where paperwork clogged like shit in narrow pipes. No. Channels weren’t good enough. He studied the Ambassador a second: the man was glib, you had to give him that. And he had the old pro’s knack of making you feel you were the only important person in his world.

  Pagan decided on a headlong approach, a lunge – what did he have to lose anyway? ‘I found a message on Harcourt’s answering-machine.’

  Caan smiled again. ‘This was after you’d kicked the door down, of course.’

  Pagan decided to let this one ride and go straight to the heart of the matter. ‘The message was a warning to Harcourt from a man called Streik.’

  The Ambassador’s expression didn’t change. ‘What was the nature of the warning?’

  OK. Throw the b
all up, see how Caan plays it. ‘Streik told Harcourt to get away from The Undertakers.’ There. Done. The ball hung in the air.

  ‘The Undertakers?’

  Pagan sat back in his chair and watched Caan, who stood up – perhaps a shade too briskly – and came round the front of his desk. He perched himself on the edge of the desk, swinging one leg back and forth. Pagan thought he detected a very slight alteration in Caan’s expression, nothing he could quite describe; maybe he only imagined the change because he wanted to, but he had a sense he’d somehow touched a nerve. And then this small feeling of discovery passed because Caan was suddenly grinning.

  ‘I think you’ve been kidded, Frank,’ he said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘The Undertakers,’ and Caan shook his head in exasperation. ‘Goddam. I thought I’d scotched that nonsense a long time ago.’

  ‘Oh?’ Pagan had the feeling that the situation was about to be turned around on him, that any tiny initiative he might have seized was going to be proven illusory.

  Caan said, ‘I used to hear whispers constantly about some rogue outfit operating from this place. It was said they pulled some dirty stunts. They allegedly called themselves The Undertakers. When I first got here I ran a fine-tooth comb through the Embassy, Frank. Now, it’s no great secret to say that some of the people here …’ Caan leaned forward, drawing Pagan into his confidence. He reached out, touched Pagan’s shoulder. ‘Well, let’s just say their connection with diplomacy is minimal and leave it at that. But they’re not breaking laws, Frank. They look after certain US interests that don’t strictly fall into the category of diplomacy. But there sure as hell isn’t any group in this building that goes by the name of The Undertakers, Frank. I can assure you of that.’

  He was good, Pagan thought. In one deft stroke, he’d admitted that a semi-clandestine element did indeed work in the Embassy, and he’d eliminated The Undertakers, relegating them to the category of groundless rumour. Pagan felt as if he’d just witnessed a nifty piece of sleight of hand.

  ‘So Streik’s message to Harcourt was what – some kind of bad joke?’

  ‘A bad joke. A bit of malice. The perpetuation of gossip. I don’t know this Streik, so I couldn’t possibly impute a motive to the man.’

  Pagan looked into the Ambassador’s face. Caan’s legerdemain was impressive, but after every trick there was always a moment when you tried to figure out how it was done, a moment when the smoke cleared. And this trickery was too pat, too slick; it was a lacquered cabinet with false doors and concealed exits. Pagan longed to take an axe to it.

  ‘I suppose I better scratch that lead,’ Pagan said. He got to his feet. ‘Well. Thanks for your time.’

  ‘The Undertakers,’ Caan said, and shook his head. ‘I can’t believe that one’s still doing the rounds.’

  He walked Pagan to the door, where he grasped his hand. ‘You need to ask me anything else, Frank, my door is always open to you.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  Butterworth appeared to escort Pagan out of the building. In Grosvenor Square, Pagan got inside his car and with one last glance at the Embassy drove away. A pigeon flew into his windshield after he’d gone half a block, thumping the glass, sliding over the bonnet in a flurry of feathers. He wondered if this were an omen and, if so, of what kind.

  It was ten a.m. when Foxworth met Alistair McLaren in a Victorian pub near Trafalgar Square. He’d waited for an hour the night before in a Soho pub, but McLaren, whose sense of time was as poor as his grip on reality, hadn’t shown up, and now he was awfully apologetic about it, plunging into a rambling drunken story concerning a party in Greek Street that had led mysteriously to another party in Wimbledon, and you know, good Lord, how these things can get out of hand … It was clear McLaren had been up all night drinking. He was a benign drunk with a gentle manner; he had a blood-red face and enormous uncontrollable eyebrows, a bear of a man. He clutched the brass rail that ran around the bar and often closed his eyes in mid-sentence as if seeking some tiny sober part of himself.

  McLaren’s drinking career had been a long one, involving hospitalizations, treatment centres, detox units, AA, the whole thing. The only reason he managed to cling to his job was because of his solid connections and the fact that people, for reasons of misplaced compassion, usually indulged him; he was just being himself, good old Alistair, basically a sound chap. He wasn’t allowed to wander into any sensitive areas; his job description was strictly limited. He’d been demoted gradually over the years but was probably too addled to realize it. When you stripped him of any official titles he might have had, he was, Foxie thought, a filing clerk.

  ‘So Foxie, old devil, what have you been up to? Still slaving for Pagan, are we?’

  ‘Still slaving.’ Foxworth ordered a brandy for himself and a scotch for McLaren.

  ‘Can’t abide Pagan,’ McLaren said.

  ‘He’s not from your side of the tracks,’ Foxie said.

  McLaren shook his large rugged head. ‘My dear fellow, class isn’t involved in this. No, no, no, class is passe. Haven’t you heard? All that bullshit has gone out of the window.’ He made a gesture with his hand suggestive of a bird taking flight. ‘Pagan rubs me the wrong way. I like a man who knows how to enjoy himself. Have a bit of fun.’

  ‘I’m sure Pagan has his own definition of fun, Alistair.’

  McLaren slapped his glass down, picked up the new one. ‘I wouldn’t want him as a drinking buddy, that’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve had a few good times with him.’

  ‘I can’t quite imagine Pagan having a good time,’ McLaren said. ‘They say he’s mad about vintage rock and roll. That tells you something right there. Stuck in the past. Glued to an old groove. Doesn’t move with the times. Get with it.’ He clicked his fingers, as if to suggest he was with it himself: a man of the moment, the cutting edge.

  Foxie, resisting the urge to defend Pagan because he wanted to be in and out of the pub quickly, said nothing. He tasted his brandy, then set his glass aside. McLaren was quiet for a while, searching the pockets of his old tweed suit for cigarettes. He found a broken one, lit it, couldn’t get it going properly even though he puffed at it furiously.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, when he’d given up on the cigarette. ‘So you’ve come seeking favours.’

  ‘I need them,’ Foxie said.

  ‘All this in-fighting’s a bit of a cock-up, don’t you think? One department pitted against the other. You on one side, me on another, this branch of Intelligence snubbing that branch, and on and on. If we had more co-operation, Robbie, we’d all be better off. What’s wrong with a bit of bloody sharing anyway? We’re on the same damn side, correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Under one flag, old son. It might be slightly tattered these days, but it’s still one flag.’

  McLaren fished through his cavernous pockets, bringing forth all manner of items – streaks of cellophane, coins, matches, flakes of tobacco. ‘When you phoned I went to the files. I think I found something for you. Took a bit of searching, all the same. You mind doing the honours while I rummage?’ He nudged his empty glass toward Foxworth who bought him a second shot, a double, even as he wondered about the shambles of McLaren’s life.

  ‘Thanks. Got it here somewhere for you.’ McLaren tasted his drink then poked at the articles he’d stretched out on the counter. Foxie surveyed with some dismay the collection of garbage McLaren produced. Now McLaren was going through another pocket, fishing out more trash, more shreds and scraps and bits and pieces, a few creased baseball cards.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing with baseball cards?’ Foxie asked.

  ‘Old hobby of mine. When the father shipped me off to Yale for a year after I flunked Cambridge, I fell under the spell of the summer game. Hot dogs and coke and blue afternoons. Ah.’ McLaren smacked his lips. ‘Miss all that in a funny way. Miss the lazy humidity. America’s a bit of a dream, really.’

  Now McLaren w
as going through the trouser pockets, the two front, the hip.

  ‘Ah-hah. Got it.’ McLaren produced a crumpled sheet of paper and smiled triumphantly. ‘Here’s what you’re after.’ He pushed the sheet toward Foxie, who picked it up.

  ‘This Streik,’ McLaren said. ‘Beats me why you’re interested in him.’ He belched quietly, trying to suppress it at the last moment by tucking his chin into his neck. ‘Strictly small-time. Delivered the occasional message for CIA. Usually Prague, sometimes Warsaw. We used him once or twice on joint operations. Elusive bugger, though. No fixed abode. Last known address Manhattan.’

  Foxie looked at the paper, on which was scribbled an address on East 23rd Street. Useless, if Streik had vanished. Under the New York address was written a name he could barely read because McLaren’s handwriting suggested the tremors of a hangover.

  ‘What’s this?’ Foxie asked.

  McLaren screwed up his eyes and looked at the paper. ‘Ah, yes. Audrey Roczak.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Former small-time operative in Prague. Warsaw. Very long association with Jacob Streik. Best of pals. Maybe even more than that if you listen to gossip. If you’re looking for Streik, you might try through her. Lives in Lyon.’

  ‘You don’t have an address for her?’

  ‘Sorry and all that. Just Lyon. Shouldn’t be too hard, though.’

  Foxie nodded, moved away from the bar, most of his brandy untouched.

  ‘I say, you’re not leaving, are you?’ McLaren seemed shattered at the prospect of drinking alone.

  ‘Got to, Alistair.’

  ‘Is there no charity in that heart of yours?’

  Foxie shrugged. He called to the bartender and set up another double scotch for McLaren and then he left the pub.