Spy Who Jumped Off the Screen : A Novel (9781101565766)

by Caplan, Thomas

  “Twenty thousand leagues under the sea,” Ty said, “on our way to you. What do you mean, what happened?”

  “You’re all over Sky News, you and Isabella.”

  Ty smiled. “Pitch me the story line.”

  “No need to, really. Use your imagination.”

  “Was there anything about Frost’s boys?”

  “They’re calling them suspected pirates for the time being. Never mind. It’s that kiss they’re giving airtime to. Frost’s thugs, Surpass’s crew, the Moroccan police—they’re not even bit players at this point, they’re extras.”

  The beginnings of laughter spread across Isabella’s face.

  “Those paparazzi saved your bacon,” Oliver continued. “I’ll say that for them. You really owe them one.”

  “And how would you propose I discharge that debt?” Ty asked. “I mean, let’s not give them too much credit, Ollie, when they’re so easy to manipulate.”

  “Anyway, the question the press is asking, and I’m sure the authorities, too, is what’s become of the two of you.”

  “And they can go on asking it,” Ty said. “From now on we’re playing by Hollywood rules. They’ll have to stay till the climax to find out what happens.”

  Oliver sighed. “In the meantime I can think of one person who won’t have enjoyed that kiss.”

  “I’m sure he’s got bigger things on his mind,” Isabella offered.

  “I suppose it depends on how he weights things, darling,” Ty told her.

  She started. It was the first time either of them had used that word.

  “Putting myself in his position,” replied Oliver, “I’d say it’s a game changer. Before it he could have had everything. Now he must make do with whatever’s left, whatever’s still under his control. But let’s get to the point, shall we? How far out are you? I presume you’re in some sort of submarine—only you would have found one of those handy—and that you’re headed for Gib.”

  “Correct on each count,” Ty replied. “I’ll need a waypoint for surfacing. Once I have that, I’ll be able to give you an ETA. We’ll require relatively deep water, obviously, but that shouldn’t pose much of a problem around here. And, Ollie, the less exposure the better right now. We’ll both need a change of clothes.”

  “I’ll ring Prada.”

  “And phones,” Ty added. “The goons neutralized ours. Most important, we’ll need ordnance.”

  “Got you,” Oliver replied. “Now, take this down. It’s the waypoint for a spot just within the entrance to a cave not far beyond Europa Point. Don’t worry, it’s safe. Legend has it that it’s depthless. Stay submerged until I give you the signal. It shouldn’t be long. There will be two fishermen, SBS blokes, in a blue skiff. Don’t hit them on your way up. They’ll change places with you, and we’ll collect you shortly thereafter.”

  “What else do I need to know?” Ty asked.

  “That we’re in countdown mode,” Oliver replied.

  “Oh, that’s just great,” Ty said. “I’m breathing easier already.”

  In the Range Rover that ferried them from a landing site not far from the shadowy, stalactite-filled cavern where they had transferred from Surpass’s submarine to the nondescript skiff, Oliver brought Ty and Isabella up to date. “Cardigan & Sons Transport,” he said, “turned out to be not so much a front as a holding company. As a result, we lost a bit of time there.”

  Ty furrowed his brow. “How much time?” he inquired.

  “Enough to have made the situation more difficult but not irretrievable, which is to say that we have—one—identified each of that firm’s subsidiaries, and—two—sequestered all the lorries and barges, whether Cardigan’s or anyone else’s, into which cargo from the Claussen Wayfarer was offloaded. As for vetting the lot by hand and eye and other sensors, we are rather short of manpower.”

  “Why?” Ty asked.

  “Principally because a threat of this sort is not information one wants to share widely, but also because of—and you won’t believe this, Ty—one George Kenneth.”

  “The old school tie?”

  “No doubt that’s part of it. Another part is the tendency of men like Kenneth to overintellectualize every goddamned thing.”

  “Is there any way around him?”

  “None through London,” Oliver said. “I’ve made stabs. So has Giles. But it’s a NATO op, and our boys aren’t going to contravene the PM, who’s not going to contravene Washington.”

  “The Prime Minister could call the President,” Ty suggested.

  “But who is going to call, much less persuade, the PM? You seem to think everyone at every level in government is on a first-name basis with and has the same priorities as everyone else. The truth is that the higher one goes, the less likely it becomes that that’s the case. Too many people have too many contrary reasons and too much turf to protect.”

  “You could call the President,” Isabella told Ty.

  Ty smiled. “What do you think?” he asked Oliver.

  “Off the top of my head, I’d say that the odds are rather slim. Ten to one the call would be redirected to George Kenneth.”

  “In which case,” Ty said, “we’d be back where we started.”

  “Pretty much, but with Kenneth pissed at us,” Oliver countered, “and on a much higher state of alert.”

  Ty paused. “Why would that matter? Surely at the end of the day we have the same objectives.”

  “Up to a point,” agreed Oliver, his voice all at once contemplative. “We want to find the warheads; so does he. But suppose that somewhere in his heart of hearts George Kenneth really believes that that’s a lost cause. And suppose he’s further concluded that no amount of extra resources, given the people and material available, could possibly affect that outcome. Drift down from the firmament for a minute and think like a courtier, Ty, like a bureaucrat! Mightn’t he prefer us to fail on our own without ever bringing his boss or, God forbid, him into it?”

  Oliver paused as Ty absorbed what his friend had said.

  “Hear me out,” Oliver resumed. “They could cut us loose. We wouldn’t be the first. After that they could start over. For all we know, they may already be doing that.”

  Ty laughed. “This, in a nutshell,” he told Isabella, “explains my change of career. Come to think of it, I’ll bet you miss the jewelry business, don’t you?”

  “Not really,” she said. “How many women get the chance to stand in the very spot where the Fates forced Hercules to hold up the world only to have to do the same thing all over again?”

  Ty reached for her hand and held it. “You’re the first one I’ve heard of,” he told her softly. Then, returning his attention to Oliver, he asked, “Where is Philip at this moment?”

  “In Ian’s office—his office now—as best we know.”

  “How can you not be sure of something like that?”

  “You’ve never been to Ian’s office, or to Giles Cotton’s, have you? If you had, you’d understand. Have you ever wondered what kind of rock the famous Rock of Gibraltar really is? It’s limestone, completely unlike any of the landscape that surrounds it. Do you know why? Because limestone is formed from sea creatures that have died, dried and solidified. The peak of the Rock was once a seabed. Think about that. And from there to the base, as far under the surface of the Med as you can go, it is shot through with caves and tunnels. Well, not all of the tunnels are natural, mind you. Over the last two centuries, ever since the Great Siege in 1782 when Spain and France sought to recapture the Rock from us whilst we were otherwise distracted by the Rebellion of the Colonies, men have excavated ever more elaborate ones, not only for HQs but for barracks and hospitals and simple warehousing. Most of all, especially in the upper reaches and outcroppings, these galleries were the sites of gun emplacements. What strategic positions they c
ommanded! There are extensive maps of them in the Garrison Library and elsewhere, but there are also an infinite number of passages that are not recorded on any plan. Like one of those ghostly castles in horror films, Gib is riddled with dark and secret corridors. So when a man, in this case Frost, enters the mountain at one point, then stops at another within it, to anyone on the outside it remains far from certain he’s still there, or from which point he will eventually emerge.”

  “Another reason we’re stretched thin?” Ty suggested.

  “Sure,” Oliver agreed. “There aren’t enough forces in the army, navy and police to plug every hole and monitor every crevice in the Rock of Gibraltar. But we have to operate on the assumption that Frost will conduct himself in the manner of a man who is above suspicion, come and go naturally, do as little as possible to draw attention to himself. That’s the impression he will wish to give. Where we are stretched thin is, first of all, in our capacity to carry out the necessary searches of cargoes received from the Wayfarer, although by now it may be too late to mobilize any more support we might receive in time to make a difference. Secondly, and far more distressingly, we are hampered by your government’s unwillingness to employ the sort of financial sorcery it is more than capable of doing.”

  “I take it you’re talking about diverting funds,” Ty interjected.

  “Yes, and in very complicated ways, such as making them disappear from those accounts where they ought to be and appear in those where they ought not to be,” Oliver said. “What worries me is that if Washington should, in even the slightest way, loosen the noose we’ve begun to tighten around Philip Frost’s neck, he’ll sense that and slip through it.”

  “I have an idea,” Ty said.

  “Let’s hear it,” Oliver told him.

  “Not quite yet. Let’s get to where we’re going first, think things through calmly. Then, maybe, I’ll give it a try.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  Philip Frost regarded the attaché cases arranged upon Ian’s malachite desk.

  Sitting across from him, Andrej Melinkov returned Philip’s expression with a puzzled look. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I expected you would be—”

  “Somewhat more upset? I know. Strange, isn’t it, but what I feel at this moment is virtually nothing. Not emptiness, not possibility—nothing. Perhaps this is freedom, Andrej.”

  The Russian nodded uneasily. “I am certain freedom takes many forms,” he said.

  “Go ahead, Andrej, ask the question that’s on your mind. It’s acceptable under the circumstances, especially our having come so far.”

  Andrej hesitated.

  “Fine,” Philip snapped. “I’ll ask it for you. Did I expect it? Yes and no, no and yes. But I am not an adolescent. My heart doesn’t break.”

  “That’s good, then.”

  “As far as it goes,” Philip conjectured. “For a man’s heart to break, he has to believe in love, and I do not. I do believe in desire, but desire is, almost by definition, transient. It exists within time while love, supposedly, does not. Will I crave and covet tomorrow that which I do today? As I ordinarily do not hunger today for what I might well have killed for yesterday, ‘Absolutely not’ would be my answer, or rather only those aspects of today that are fungible.”

  Andrej’s black eyes glistened. “Such as the gems and jewels in those cases,” he suggested, “whose beauty will not fade.”

  “Whose value will not fade,” Philip corrected. “Mr. Santal concerned himself with aesthetics. I am less bothered where material possessions are concerned. Beyond an easily obtainable level of comfort, my tastes, in fact, are spartan.”

  Andrej laughed.

  “Well, in comparison to Ian’s,” Philip acquiesced.

  “You appreciate a beautiful woman.”

  “The most natural thing in the world, isn’t it? I appreciate them, and I have them. I command them in the marketplace. Such women are perverse and cannot resist what’s unobtainable. They relish nothing more than being fucked by a hard body and a stiff prick who they know is bedding them entirely for his satisfaction. I had Isabella Cavill at her peak, Andrej. The novelty wore off long ago, though plainly there were other compensations. Had our liaison gone on very much longer, would these have been enough to endure the inevitable slippage, the eventually monotonous and mundane quality of our lives as husband and wife? I very much doubt that. I would have tired of her before she’d tired of me. Besides, when a man is fool enough to make that sort of commitment and then live by it, he has imprisoned himself within not only his own horizons but hers.”

  Andrej hesitated. “Well, then,” he said.

  “This is not self-justification,” Philip pressed on, less temperately. “It’s simply the truth, as well as an unfortunate turn of events I had already provided for, with the utmost care, in my plans.”

  “I understand.”

  “Not entirely,” Philip assured him, for Andrej could not possibly know that Philip had induced Isabella to draw up and sign her will in his favor.

  “As you wish,” Andrej relented.

  “Which has nothing to do with my right to feel betrayed, does it, or to revenge that filthy, sickeningly public betrayal?”

  “You are asking a highly personal question,” Andrej said.

  “So? Answer it.”

  “It is well known that there exists such a thing as a crime of passion,” Andrej replied.

  “Indeed,” Philip concurred, “there have been many celebrated crimes passionelles. Books and plays, even operas have been written about them. Paintings have portrayed them. But I can tell just from your expression that you would find it difficult to imagine me as the perpetrator of one.”

  “It’s not your style.”

  “That’s very useful to know,” Philip said. “Thank you. I take it we are ready.”

  “Correct,” Andrej answered.

  “And Hans and Franz understand what they are to do?”

  “They do. Hans is just outside. You can judge for yourself.”

  “In a moment,” Philip said. “We have a great deal to accomplish over a shorter period of time than I’d hoped for, but if we don’t permit ourselves the luxury of any further mistakes, at the end of the day that might well prove to our advantage.”

  “I can’t imagine what happened on Santal’s yacht,” Andrej said.

  “That’s because you don’t know Jean-François. Whatever triggered their unease I am sure had to do with him, not your men, who barely speak English and surely looked the part of the guards they were meant to be. No, I misjudged Jean-François. I thought all along there was a chance he might overplay his hand, but who else was there? Still, it was out of that concern that I devised the contingency plan we are now following.

  “I assume the men are ready to take their positions in the upper galleries.”

  “Yes, within fifteen minutes’ notice,” Andrej replied. “They have been fed. They are resting now, waiting for my call.”

  Philip glanced at his watch, then said, “The last wire transfers will have been completed in less than twenty-four hours. Tomorrow night, if not tonight, you should sleep like a baby, Andrej.”

  “I will welcome that.”

  “Okay,” Philip said, as much to himself as to Andrej. “Hans is to leave here in exactly one quarter hour. I will follow by my own route no more than ten minutes after that. Your men should be in their positions, with weapons locked and loaded, by the time I leave. Please confirm this before I do. Isabella and Ty Hunter will be arriving sometime within the following hour.”

  “You seem very certain of that.”

  “They will have made their way here somehow. I don’t know how, but they will have concluded that Gibraltar, not Tangier, is the new playing field. Of course, there is always the possibility that they won’t. In that case p
erhaps they will flee to a love nest in Marrakesh. Or perhaps the whole scene was staged for the press, to evade pirates who had betrayed not merely them but me. Then they’ll call at any minute to let me know that they are safe and not really together, to ease my concern. We’ll soon see. If they have flown off to Marrakesh, they can be dealt with later. If they call, I’ll listen to what they have to say, but it is my strong suspicion I won’t have to. They will come in person, because while the search parties search, they will want to have a look around, hoping to find a clue everyone else has overlooked. Ian Santal’s inner sanctum, after all, should contain a mother lode of information, and as his heir, Isabella will expect to have the run of it. She’ll be given that, too, at least to start.

  “Why not ask Hans to come in now?”

  “I’ll do that,” Andrej replied as he set off toward Ian’s reception room.

  A moment later he returned with a young man of almost exactly Philip’s age, height and weight, with hair of the same color, cut in the same meticulous style, but combed, for the moment, differently. The young man was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and sandals.

  “Good afternoon,” Philip said.

  “Good afternoon,” replied his doppelgänger in overprecise yet halting English.

  Reaching into the well of his desk, Philip removed a blue canvas garment bag and handed it to the man. “I would like you to put on these clothes.”

  The man nodded.

  “You will find shoes that fit you in the dressing room just over there. Study my hair, then go into the loo and rebrush yours in the same style. Once you have done that, come back here. It should not take you long.”

  When the man returned, he could have been mistaken for Philip’s twin, particularly in profile and at the distance from which he was likely to be observed. Philip studied him. “Take off that tie,” he said. “I will show you how to tie a half Windsor, which is the knot I use. Where, I wonder, did Andrej find you?”

  “Through my agency in Berlin,” the German replied.

  “You are an actor or a model.”