by Jeremy Duns
There had been similar missions, the most notable being the attempts to bring George Blake and Kim Philby back to London. Blake had come willingly, having been summoned by telegram for a possible promotion, and had eventually cracked and confessed all. But Philby had managed to fool the officer sent out to fetch him into giving him time to arrange his affairs before flying home, and had promptly fled to Moscow instead. Some felt that the officer in question, one of Philby’s oldest friends, had deliberately bungled the operation through a sense of personal loyalty. ‘Whatever happens,’ Sandy had said with startling ferocity in her last meeting with him, ‘we can’t have a repeat of that fiasco. We need to know precisely what Gadlow’s done, so don’t let the bastard out of your sight and bring him back in one piece.’ And then he had smiled, and his usual smooth demeanour had been restored.
‘How was your flight?’
Rachel snapped out of her thoughts. ‘Oh, it was fine, thank you. But rather long – the furthest I’ve been before is Gibraltar.’
She winced at how provincial she sounded, but Eleanor Gadlow gave her an indulgent smile. ‘You were lucky this afternoon’s storm died down – sometimes they drag on for hours, and that’s no fun to land in, believe me.’
Rachel made further polite noises, wondering if the chattiness was her natural state or a sign of anxiety.
They reached a glass door at the far end of the room. Beyond it, a grey and mauve sky stretched above a landscape of rolling hills that even in the twilight looked lush and alive.
Eleanor Gadlow caught the expression of awe on her face and smiled. ‘Yes, we’re very lucky. It all used to be plantations, of course.’ She slid the door open and called out. ‘Darling? The girl from London’s here.’
Rachel noted the dismissive description and stepped out after her, her skin prickling as the hot damp air again swathed her like an invisible blanket. A dark plume of smoke emerged from a coiled device placed on the tiles, and she realised it was to ward off mosquitoes.
A figure rose from a scoop-backed rattan chair in the far corner of the veranda and walked towards her. He was broad-shouldered and beefy: he’d been a rugby blue, and his face bore further testament to that fact, with a conspicuously broken nose set in an otherwise handsome, hearty face. He wore a crisp white shirt paired with a bright pink and green patterned sarong and a pair of highly polished sandals, and his dark hair was greased back with pomade. Rachel tried not to show surprise at the absurd outfit and braced herself for the usual masculine glazing of the eyes once he had taken her in, but instead he gave her a dazzling smile of such apparent sincerity that for one horrifying moment she wondered whether she had got everything wrong, and was here in error.
She blinked, forcing herself to picture the chart on her desk with the row of distribution lists, and his name at the top of every one of them. No, he was guilty, and she could prove it. She had proven it, to the satisfaction of Sandy and everyone else who’d read her report. It was incontrovertible – and one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
He leaned forward and took her hand firmly in his grasp. ‘Tom Gadlow. You must be Rachel. The office cabled to say you were on your way a few hours ago. Though the message was rather vague.’
Rachel glanced over at his wife, and Gadlow caught it.
‘Oh, you can speak freely – Eleanor’s fully cleared.’
She was Gadlow’s secretary at the station – it was how they’d met – but Rachel had wanted to speak to him alone. An awkward silence stretched out as she wondered how best to broach the subject. On an impulse, she walked over to the stone balustrade and leaned across it, looking out onto a large garden. Beds of vivid orange and red flowers – cannas, she thought – were dotted around a small swimming pool that had been lit up from within, like a diamond glowing in a velvet cushion. What a life: servants and evening gowns and swimming pools. She thought of her tiny kitchenette in Holborn: Danny’s books and papers, the sink so small it was an engineering job to wash the dishes, the malfunctioning radiators. A few weeks earlier it had been so cold at night that she’d taken to spinning her legs around beneath her quilt, as though riding a bicycle, to generate some heat.
She turned back to the Gadlows, and the business in hand.
‘I’m sorry to barge in on you both like this. I take it you’re on your way out somewhere?’
Gadlow nodded. ‘Yes. The Harrisons – colleagues from the High Commission. They have an open house every year.’
‘It’s the best New Year’s Eve party in KL,’ added Eleanor. ‘Joan works with a local catering chap – what’s his name again, darling?’
Gadlow smiled tightly. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Yes, you do. She was telling us about it the other day . . . Mister Kong, that’s it! She goes on a little sortie with him through Chinatown, and she samples all the hawker stalls and chooses her favourite dozen, the crème de la crème. Mister Kong then makes all the arrangements and they relocate their stalls, just for the night, in the Harrisons’ garden. They’re all decorated with lanterns, and you wander through helping yourself to kway teow or soup or whatever you fancy – your own little Chinatown for the evening. Isn’t that marvellous? Tom always gorges himself at the mee stall – it’s those thick noodles, you like, isn’t it?’
Gadlow nodded, Rachel thought a little embarrassed by his wife’s loquaciousness. She gave what she hoped passed for a rueful smile. ‘Well, I’m afraid he’s going to have to give the noodles a miss this year. He’s needed back in London.’ She addressed Gadlow. ‘We’re flying back tonight, and you’re expected at a meeting at headquarters as soon as we arrive.’
Eleanor Gadlow spoke first, her face now devoid of the brightness of a few moments earlier.
‘Tonight? What’s going on – is there some sort of emergency? And why’ve they sent you all the way out here to escort him back, rather than just telling him to book a flight out?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’m just following instructions.’
Eleanor Gadlow shook her head in a small gesture of bafflement. ‘But they must have told you something, surely?’
Rachel didn’t reply. Don’t get drawn in, Sandy had told her. Avoid all confrontation. But the mood had shifted: she was no longer a guest to impress with tales of lavish parties, or ‘the girl from London’. She was an intruder.
Gadlow placed a hand on his wife’s arm. ‘It’s all right, darling, I’m sure they’ll have their reasons.’ He turned to Rachel. ‘What time’s this flight?’
‘We’re booked on the BOAC leaving at three a.m. We’ll arrive in Heathrow in the early afternoon and you’re due at headquarters straightaway. You’ll fly back out on Monday.’
She did have a ticket for him on the return flight, but he was never going to use it. The schedule had been worked out to give him the least possible time to think, let alone contact his handler or a cut-out.
Gadlow glanced at his watch. ‘You have to check in at one for that flight, which is, let’s see, in . . . six and a half hours from now. All right. I’ve got an overnight bag prepared upstairs. I take it you won’t mind if I pop by the Harrisons’ with Eleanor anyway – just for half an hour or so? I don’t care for “Auld Lang Syne” personally, but it’s the social occasion of the year in these parts and it would look odd if I didn’t at least show my face. Eleanor would be fielding pointed questions from first attachés all night.’
He had played the hand well, she had to give him that. Concerned, polite, and there was nothing she could object to without seeming unreasonable. She didn’t know if he was acting alone or with his wife’s help, but even without the prompting he must have suspected her real reason for coming out here – why send an escort, indeed? But Rachel’s objective was not simply to get him back to London, but to do so without the Sovs noticing. Once a few days had passed and he hadn’t shown up at the High Commission or made contact, they would naturally worry he had been blown – but they wouldn’t be sure of it. He might simply be attending a training course or
being briefed for a future posting. After a few weeks they would realise there could be no other explanation, but by then the Service would have had a chance to place surveillance on every agent and case officer he’d identified in the interim, and perhaps even to feed them some disinformation.
She somehow doubted that a no-show at a New Year’s Eve party would seriously perturb anyone, let alone the Russians – but it was a nagging possibility nonetheless. It was a deft hand in other ways, too, as he had instantly put her under pressure. Don’t let the bastard out of your sight. Well, that had been easy enough for Sandy to say from the comfort of his enormous office in London, but if she insisted Gadlow didn’t attend the party she would merely confirm his suspicion that he’d been detected, meaning he’d have even less to lose by trying to make a run for it. And she had no way of preventing him from going to the party, or anywhere else for that matter. She wasn’t even armed.
She felt like a fool. All her planning had been undone in seconds. And as much as she wished she had brought a gun with her, she knew it wouldn’t have helped, as she could hardly have just shot him if he failed to do what she said. That was something for the pictures.
And perhaps he had another motive. Was it simply the condemned man’s last request, but rather than a cigarette or a rare steak, his favourite dish of noodles and perhaps the chance to save face with his wife and friends? The idea made her unaccountably sad. It was easy to hate traitors on paper. Far harder in the flesh.
Her mind raced through the possibilities, calculating her next move. Eleanor Gadlow was watching her intently, but her husband was now looking out into the garden, as though not especially interested in how she would respond. She cleared her throat.
‘This party. Do you think the hosts would mind if I came, too?’
Gadlow turned to her and held her gaze for a fraction of a moment, then broke out his charmer’s smile again. ‘Of course not. You’d be our guest. Akib can drive us all there, and then he can take the two us on to the airport when the time comes. How does that sound?’
‘Wonderful.’
At precisely ten o’clock, Udah Atnam walked through the front gates of the Harrisons’ property and glanced at the gathering of cars parked in the drive. Most had diplomatic plates and small flags attached to the bonnets. The chauffeurs were smoking and talking among themselves.
He walked past them, down a narrow path in the grass that led to a servants’ entrance. He parted a beaded curtain and entered the hot, steam-dense kitchen. The Harrisons’ amah was working with members of Mister Kong’s catering staff, preparing cold cuts and snacks. None of them paid Udah Atnam any mind, as he was dressed, like them, in a white smock with a checked blue and white sash and matching forage cap.
‘It’s like a paper-chase, only with crates of beer at the end of it. You really should try it if you ever get the chance.’
Rachel was half-listening as Simon Harrison explained to her the history and rules of the Hash House Harriers while she took tiny sips from the glass of advocaat he’d foisted on her. A blend of aromas – peanut sauce and chilli and coconut milk and fried meats – wafted over from the stalls in the garden, and somewhere over to her right a jazz quartet was playing an instrumental rendition of ‘It Was a Very Good Year’. Every few seconds she glanced towards Tom Gadlow, who was standing a couple of feet away, talking with Eleanor and a Spanish military attaché about the riots that had taken place between the Malays and Chinese the previous spring, and which had apparently led to the decision not to have any fireworks at midnight this year.
A mosquito whined in her ear, and she shook her head in an attempt to evade it. She was being bitten to death by the things. Harrison broke off his exegesis to commiserate.
‘Ah, you’re fresh blood. I’m afraid they love newcomers, although you do become hardened to it. How long are you out here for?’
‘Oh, just a flying visit.’
He bowed his head. ‘What a shame – both for us and the mosquitoes.’
She forced a smile, grateful for the kindness but now a little weary of the flow of expatriate charm. This was what she had to look forward to if she was ever posted to a Station, she thought. Christ. She caught Gadlow’s eye and looked down at her wristwatch meaningfully. He broke away from his discussion, and she quickly disentangled herself from Harrison.
‘We need to get going soon.’
‘I know. Thank you for letting me show my face – I hope you can understand why it was necessary.’
She nodded, although she understood no such thing. But she was relieved nevertheless – he seemed to be taking his fate with a certain dignity. They were nearly there, and no Russians in fedoras had turned up to spirit him away on a freighter bound for Vladivostok. Only a few minutes to go now.
‘I’m just going to grab my annual bowl of noodles, and then we can head off.’
She looked at him. A last-minute attempt to run?
‘I’ll come with you.’
They headed into the garden, towards the replica Chinatown.
Udah Atnam walked through the kitchen and into the narrow corridor leading to the dining room. Halfway along, he opened a door that had a card reading ‘Staff Bathroom’ taped above the handle.
He locked the door behind him, then took a small passport-sized photograph from his jacket. It was of a man, a European. He held it between two fingers and examined it for a few minutes. Once he was sure he had committed every aspect of the features staring back at him to memory, he tore the photograph into tiny pieces, lifted the seat of the toilet and dropped them, fluttering, into the bowl.
He reached behind the cistern and slowly pulled out a small dark wooden container resembling a cigar case. He clicked open the latch and removed the inner and outer barrels of a bamboo pipe. He fixed these together, then attached the small ivory mouthpiece that sat in an indentation in the case. He placed the assembled pipe inside a thin pocket that was sewn into the lining of his right jacket sleeve.
There was now just one item left in the case: a small dart. Its tip had been dipped in a mixture of strychnine and the boiled-down resin of an ipoh tree, and was protected by a wooden sheath. He made sure the sheath was clipped tight, then placed the dart in the pocket sewn into his other sleeve.
He stood, flushed the lavatory and walked back into the kitchen. On one of the counters he spied a tray of drinks. He picked it up and headed outside.
Rachel was panicking. She’d actually lost sight of Gadlow. The cardinal bloody sin. Sandy was going to kill her, string her up outside his office as a warning to others.
How had she let it happen? They’d been standing in line at his beloved noodle stall, and after she had given her order to the smiling stall-holder she had turned so he could do the same, only to find he’d vanished.
She had been paralysed for a moment, but then the magnitude of the situation had registered somewhere and she had started running through the small warren of stalls, searching for him among the party guests, of whom there suddenly seemed to be hundreds. Faces blurred into each other and snippets of laughter seemed to mock her as she rushed past, caroming into people. A babble of voices called out to her, in English, Malay, Tamil and who knew what else, and she felt her head spinning. Her sandals were slowing her down so she kicked them off, feeling the blades of the coarse grass digging into the soles of her feet as she did. He had to be here somewhere, he couldn’t simply have disappeared . . . Through a cloud of steam she glimpsed a flash of pink.
There.
It was him. He was about twenty yards away, talking to someone. A servant holding a tray. Could it be a contact?
She started running towards him, abandoning her English restraint and knocking over people’s drinks and plates in the process, her pulse racing as she tried to keep her panic from rising and focus on the figure ahead: white shirt, pink and green sarong, get to him, get to him . . .
A chit-chat scuttled in front of Gadlow’s feet as he hurried through the stalls. He had to get out of the
villa. If Kolya had received the message he’d transmitted that afternoon, there should be a car waiting in the street. If . . .
‘Sir!’
Gadlow turned sharply, his shoulders tensing. A kitchen boy was standing near one of the satay stalls, beckoning him. Gadlow hurried over.
‘Yes?’
The boy nodded in a small gesture of supplication. ‘I have been sent to assist you.’
Gadlow peered at the boy in the darkness. ‘By who?’
‘Your friends in Moscow.’
Gadlow exhaled deeply as the relief flooded through him. Thank God. Kolya had received the message, and delivered. He wondered how they planned to get him out? Submarine? He had a brief stabbing memory of that first glimpse he’d had of the Thule from the beach in Tanjong Siang in 1945, and then the descent from its conning tower into the wardroom, the thick slabs of bread and English beer laid out on a vast white tablecloth like manna from heaven after all the years in the jungle. Well, no English beer would be waiting for him in Moscow, but he could live with that if he could only escape the jungle one more time.
He glanced behind him at the cluster of stalls. The bluestocking bitch from headquarters was pushing through the crowd and heading straight for him. He turned back to the servant.
‘What about my wife – when will she be able to join me?’
The boy gestured that they step away from the lanterns that lit the maze of stalls. Gadlow followed him through until they emerged into the unlit part of the garden. The boy placed his tray on the grass and gestured at the slope, which led down to a wire fence. Gadlow nodded: there must be a way through to the street from there. He started negotiating down the slope using one hand to steady himself.
The dart thudded into the back of Gadlow’s neck. He experienced a moment of realisation – the thought ‘Kolya’ flashed through his mind – before he grunted and fell forward, his knees hitting the grass and then his forehead joining them. Udah Atnam rushed towards him. He plucked the dart from his neck and slid it back into his sleeve, then rolled the man’s body into the bushes and started walking back up to the house.
