The Spider Dance

by Nick Setchfield

  Winter took the card and turned it face down on the desk. His breathing had quickened.

  ‘What did you see?’ asked Bhamra, her pen poised above the open file. ‘Was it something that you recognised? Something you knew?’

  Winter hesitated. And then he spoke a single word, as if wanting it gone from his mouth.

  ‘Magic,’ he told her.

  3

  Tram cars clattered through the smoky heart of Budapest’s western bank. Drab little Trabants kept pace, bouncing on the cobbles while infinitely more graceful Soviet Volgas slid by, ferrying party officials behind tinted glass. It was a warm, parched evening, typical of a long Hungarian summer, and the air had turned to an amber haze of exhaust fumes and dwindling sunlight.

  Winter made his way along the terraces beneath the steep green Buda Hills, his tie hanging below his collar, a concession to the heat. He walked at a brisk pace. It was almost eight and he had an appointment to keep in Szentháromság tér.

  A Trident from Gatwick had brought him to Ferihegy airport the night before. His credentials were impeccable, forged by an SIS craftsman proud to be known as Bullshit Evans. But as he handed over the artfully aged and battered passport Winter had felt the familiar sensation of time expanding, the seconds crawling as the calm eyes behind the desk scrutinised every detail of his bogus identity. It was a moment you could never be comfortable with.

  Anthony Robert St John Prestwick. Born in Epsom, 12 November 1917. Married to Jill. Darling, dog-crazed Jill, Winter imagined. A photocopier salesman by trade. Something unhappy in his eyes, perhaps, but a decent stick just the same. He’d be dead of a gin-soaked liver in ten years, tops. Poor darling, dog-crazed Jill. She’d never quite get over it.

  The border official had glanced between Winter and the glum black-and-white photograph before turning his gaze to the visa. Finally satisfied, he’d reached for a ledger and flicked through its fat stack of pages, the nibbled stump of a pencil in his hand. He had neatly recorded the Englishman’s details, the lead scratching along the lined paper. And then he had stamped the passport, leaving a blotch of purple ink.

  A stiff-lipped smile, a final look. ‘Halad.’ Proceed.

  Winter had nodded, careful not to look too grateful, and Anthony Robert St John Prestwick had stepped behind the Iron Curtain, heading for baggage reclaim.

  His cover had compelled him to spend the day at a photocopier salesman’s conference in the Erzsébetváros district, listening to insights on recent advances in liquid toner technology. By the end of the morning session he had considered extracting the contents of his skull with rusted pliers.

  Lunch had been a little more bearable: sweet cherry brandies, a plate of pork and cabbage, the trading of crisp new business cards whose number, if ever rung, would cue a cool but sympathetic female voice, explaining that Prestwick Copy Solutions had succumbed to a regrettably sudden bankruptcy. The afternoon had been devoted to the commercial possibilities of dye sublimation in Eastern Bloc countries. Winter had pondered the possibilities of setting his head on fire.

  Now he was in the Old Town, a mazy medieval enclave fighting a rearguard action against the bleak socialist housing that ringed the city. Budapest was nothing if not resilient, Winter knew. It had withstood Mongol invasion, Turkish occupation and a world war that had nearly razed it to the earth. The Soviets held it as a satellite state – they had crushed the uprising in ’56, rolling tanks into the bloodied streets – but for all they imposed their statues of heroic workers they were, Winter suspected, only ever borrowing the city from history.

  He strode into Szentháromság tér, the aroma of fried batter and garlic on the breeze, drifting from a street vendor’s stall. The right side of the square was dominated by Matthias Church, its diamond-patterned roof glittering as it caught the last of the day’s light. A carved crow crowned the gothic spire. In the church’s shadow was a bench, and on the bench was a man shuffling a set of playing cards. Winter went and sat next to him, disturbing a cobalt-blue butterfly that had settled on the wooden arm. They were everywhere in Budapest.

  ‘I believe you dropped a card.’

  The man barely acknowledged him. He continued to sort the cards, plying them between his fingers. Even on the bench he cut a long, rangy figure, dressed in brown suede lace-ups and a matted tweed blazer that gave him the look of an out-of-season lecturer. His eyebrows curled like millipedes, as thick as his moustache.

  ‘Are you sure?’ The voice was British, and it had the sour, dull tone of someone reading from a script. ‘The Hungarian deck only contains thirty-two cards. The suits are different, too, of course. Leaves, bells, acorns and hearts. You might be mistaken.’

  Winter followed the protocol with an equal lack of enthusiasm, plucking a single picture card from his chest pocket. It showed a female monarch. ‘Queen. And country.’

  The man inspected the card, accepted it and added it to the deck. And then he smiled, surprisingly warmly. ‘Not quite the winning hand it used to be, old man.’

  ‘We do what we can.’

  A firm hand was offered. ‘Bernard Gately. Been here six years. I write for The Economist. Well, that’s the day job. You know the rest.’

  ‘Decent cover.’

  Gately nodded. ‘It gets me around. Lets me ask questions. We don’t push it, though. London likes to use me sparingly. The odd eavesdrop, the occasional wiretap. Running extractions every now and then, like tonight. I keep my hand in. But subtly, you know. Nothing too showy.’

  ‘Understood. I won’t drag you into the spotlight.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that. To be honest the journalism’s rather better paid.’

  ‘You’re a true patriot, Bernard.’

  ‘We do what we can.’

  They scoured the square as they talked, sifting the crowd for the presence of state security. Both men knew that any cover, however solid, however embedded, had to exist in a permanent state of potential compromise. It was your default position in the field. Keep sharp, expect the worst, be ready to move at a moment’s notice.

  The butterfly spun like a spill of paint in the air.

  ‘So where do I find the woman?’ asked Winter.

  ‘The Maria Theresa Hotel in Pest. That’s her hunting ground. She’ll be there tonight. But she’ll have company. For a while.’

  ‘And she’s expecting me?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I briefed her yesterday. But don’t expect her to acknowledge you, not at first. She’ll need to work. Turn a trick or two for the Ministry of Internal Affairs. And they’ll be watching her. Choose your moment carefully. She’s rather prized.’

  The butterfly wheeled past a group of young secretaries in headscarves, sharing cigarettes in the cool shadow of the old town hall. They were chattering animatedly in Magyar.

  ‘Why does she want to defect? Ideological reasons?’

  Gately snorted. ‘Is it ever? Oh, sure, maybe when it comes to our lot. The Burgesses and Macleans have the ghost of Karl Marx whispering in their ears. To each according to their needs, all that noble collectivist shit. It’s the higher ground to them, the East. But when someone jumps to the West they’re not thinking of the moral superiority of the capitalist system. They just want to get away from the state. They never seem to realise we’ll also be watching them, every day of their lives. We just have nicer manners and better tea.’

  He squinted, his eyes retreating beneath the thick brows. ‘Things might change here one day. Kádár’s a progressive at heart. But Moscow put him in. And they’ll only tolerate so much progress before they bring the tanks back.’

  The butterfly landed on an ornate stone column that stood in front of the bench. The tall white pillar was decorated with saints and cherubs, rising to an intricately carved depiction of the Holy Trinity. The figures that ringed the base of the monument were altogether less sanctified. They had been immortalised in a state of terror, all ragged clothes and screaming mouths.

  Gately followed Winter’s eyes. ‘They’re plague
victims. The pandemic came to Buda in 1691. Devastated the city.’

  ‘So it’s a memorial?’

  Gately shook his head. ‘No. They built it as a defence. And then the plague returned in 1709. People were convinced God had abandoned them. That thought must have been even more terrifying than the plague. Now what have they got? Statues of Marx and Engels. I trust they’re keeping the proletariat plague-free.’

  ‘Where do we rendezvous?’ asked Winter, practically.

  ‘Keleti station. Tomorrow morning. Ten am sharp. We’ll get the pair of you on the Salzburg train. I’ll have the papers prepared for her. Pick-up in Austria. London will handle it from there. She knows you already, doesn’t she?’

  Winter hesitated, shaping an answer. ‘She certainly says we’re acquainted.’

  Gately frowned, puzzled by Winter’s choice of words. ‘So you’ve met her, then?’

  ‘It’s just a little complicated.’

  ‘She referred to you by another name. Tobias Hart. Previous operational cover, I take it?’

  Winter held Gately’s gaze. ‘Like I said, it’s a little complicated.’

  His contact shrugged, sensing he shouldn’t push the conversation any further. ‘Whatever you say. Above my clearance, I take it. Wouldn’t be the first time with you London boys. But I’ll tell you one thing, Winter. Be careful with this woman. She may be more than she appears. To be honest I’ve heard some rather unsettling things about her.’

  ‘Tell me what you know.’

  Gately had kept his voice low throughout but it was barely a murmur now. ‘Oh, just bar talk, old man, nothing I can file. But some people reckon she’s mixed up in more than just honeytraps. There have been some deeply suspicious deaths in this city over the last few years. Discreet political assassinations, opponents and agitators found dead in their beds, that kind of thing. Her name’s been linked to them. Nothing official, you understand, no hard proof, but too often to be coincidence.’

  Winter gave a tight smile as he rose from the bench. ‘It’s never coincidence, Bernard. Coincidence is what happens to civilians.’

  * * *

  The Széchenyi Chain Bridge united Buda with Pest, its cast-iron span straddling the Danube. The river rolled beneath it, the axis of the city, pouring from the Black Forest in Baden-Württemberg to the Black Sea on the distant Romanian coast. The churn of water had a peaty smell, as if the heart of the German forest still clung to it.

  Flanked by traffic, Winter crossed the century-old suspension bridge, heading for Pest on the eastern bank. The sun had retreated behind the Buda Hills, leaving the sky the colour of a rose. There were coal barges on the river, bobbing brightly in the dusk. The evening wind had a sweet, powdery quality, stealing the scent of paprika from the hillside.

  Why had he come to Budapest? He was still turning that question over in his head. Part of him wanted the sense of purpose an assignment gave him. So much of his life had been built on the familiar certainties of briefing, infiltration, implementation, escape. He had the rhythm of a mission in his bones. And he missed it.

  But it was more than that. Tobias Hart was a scab that kept itching. Karina had urged him to box away his past but it intrigued him, that black void in his memory. Who had he been? Who had he hurt? How much pain had he brought to this world – and how thin was the line that divided them, the young warlock and the veteran spy? If this woman, this Alessandra Moltini, had known him as Hart then Winter might get some answers.

  For a moment he saw the Rorschach test on Bhamra’s desk, the ink seething on the paper, its possibilities infinite, seductive. He glanced down at the Danube. The water looked dark and limitless beneath an early moon. Magic could shape this world. Hart had known that. Maybe curiosity had led him to that understanding.

  Winter strode past the stone lions that guarded the Pest-side approach to the bridge. A trolleybus soon rattled him along the embankment, into the grand boulevards of bicycles and fountains, their broad sweep lit by a march of street lamps. This half of the city was crumbling handsomely, its buildings full of a fin-de-siècle swagger for all their decay. Gargoyles roosted above the gutterings, keeping watch on the passing trams.

  The Maria Theresa Hotel stood in Belváros, the innermost part of Pest. It was a baroque, six-storey townhouse, elegant as a cake, bulging with balconies. Winter pushed his way through the oak-and-glass doors, into a reception area that smelt of coffee and beeswax. He made his way to the bar and ordered a small glass of Hungarian red.

  An hour passed, Winter sipping his wine and pecking at a bowlful of spiced nuts. He had his back to the hub of the bar, a position he had chosen carefully. There was a bevelled mirror bolted to the wall in front of him, one that gave a strategic view of the other patrons. He studied their reflections. Businessmen or management, mainly, most of them middle-aged, their throats plump and pink, bulging over stiff shirt collars. There might have been a minor politician or two, maybe a low-ranking state official, nursing a sickly fruit brandy.

  It was the perfect hunting ground for the Ministry of Internal Affairs. This was where honeytraps were sprung, among well-placed, vulnerable men pushing guilty coins into the hotel payphone to tell their wives that no, they wouldn’t be home, because work had piled up tonight so unexpectedly. They would return in the early hours, check for lipstick in the shaving mirror, dab on cologne to cover the unfamiliar perfume that had seeped into their skin. And then they would creep into dark, loveless bedrooms, knowing their wives were only pretending to be asleep.

  Within a week the envelope would arrive. It would come to the office, not the home, and it would contain frames of film, neatly snipped, the clumsy, hurried sex caught behind a mirror or through a light fitting or a ventilation grille. There would be instructions, of course. Nothing as blunt as blackmail. Just a reminder that obedience was owed to the state. And one day information would be required, or an act of loyalty requested. Perhaps an eye would have to be kept on a potential dissident, or some disappointing export figures would need massaging. It was leverage, simple as that.

  Winter knew there was a dark science to the whole operation. Both East and West had departments dedicated to the fine art of the honeytrap. Libido strategists, they were called – well, there were other, filthier names, naturally. They would profile the target, discover what turned them on, note it in forensic detail: leather or fur, boots or stilettos, the cane or the kiss. Maybe the scent worn by that pretty young teacher, forty years ago. Fetishes, triggers, erotic faultlines. They would take this information and construct the perfect irresistible bait.

  Winter’s eyes went to the mirror. Alessandra Moltini had entered the bar.

  4

  Winter knew who she was the moment he saw her.

  The woman prised her way through the crowd, slipping between the men, her movements sinuous and assured. She must have dyed her hair or chosen a short blonde wig but the wide mouth and confident dark eyes were unmistakable. The photo in Faulkner’s file had captured her perfectly: disdain offset by something sensuous, something hungry. She was dressed in a starkly cut grey suit and an ivory silk blouse, her hands hidden by stiff leather gloves. An opal locket danced at her throat. A low-key glamour, just right for a public seduction.

  For a moment their eyes connected in the mirror. Winter caught something black and fathomless in her gaze. He quickly looked away. He knew this woman. He had no memory of her but he knew this woman.

  She took a seat, close to a slight, sandy-haired man in his early fifties, sitting alone. Clearly this was the intended target. The man waited a moment to look at her. A glance and then his eyes fell and he gazed a little too intently at his drink. The woman unpeeled her gloves, smoothed them flat and placed them on the table next to his. One leg slid over the other, revealing a shimmer of seamed nylon and a sharp heel. She had an almost geometric poise, every angle calculated, balanced. The man stole another look, letting their eyes lock briefly.

  Winter took another sip of red, watching the mirror. The
woman removed a slim black cigarette case from her handbag, the polished onyx gleaming in the light of the bar. She then made a play of searching for her lighter. The man offered his. She let him attend to her cigarette, nudging its tip against the flame until she exhaled the first languorous curl of smoke. It was textbook stuff, as ritualised as Japanese theatre.

  They made conversation, their bodies edging closer as they leaned forward in their chairs. The man ordered drinks and a showy choice of champagne arrived. Soon they were oblivious to the rest of the bar. Winter watched as the woman expertly echoed the man’s body language, subtly mimicking his posture. He did the same, more unconsciously. At one point their heads fell together in laughter and she touched the nape of his neck, scoring a nail through the close-cropped hair above his collar.

  Eventually they stood up, the man steadying himself as he drew his jacket together. He collected the champagne bottle then put a proprietorial arm around the woman’s waist and walked her out of the bar. Part of him obviously wanted to leave unnoticed; part of him needed the other men to see.

  Winter abandoned his wine and followed the pair, keeping a cautious distance. He saw them disappear up the thickly carpeted stairs that led from reception. They would be heading to the third floor. She was room 304; Winter had been installed in 303.

  He was about to take the stairs when he found someone standing in his way. A squat, buzz-cut man in a gold-buttoned blue waistcoat. A laminated badge identified him as hotel staff but there was an implicit aggression about him, something vicious burning just beneath the skin.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The apology had a surly edge. There was no smile.