Skydancer

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘Mmmm, delightful.’

  ‘Karl knows a dealer who specialises in that type of art, so Alec’s bought quite a few of them in the last six months.’

  She could have added that there were plenty of other things they needed which he could have spent his money on, but she restrained herself. Instead she was silent for a moment, wondering how to raise the subject that was concerning her.

  ‘Are you . . . are you involved in this secrets business?’ she blurted out eventually.

  Peter was surprised by the directness of her question.

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose I am.’

  ‘What . . . on the investigating side? Police? Security, that sort of thing?’

  ‘No,’ he replied carefully. ‘No, I’m not the police. I’m a scientist. I helped design the weapon that all the fuss is about.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’

  Her eyes seemed to lose their concentration and she gazed vaguely into the corner of the room, puzzling whether he might be able to answer her questions.

  ‘Have you been under suspicion, too, then?’ she went on. ‘I mean Alec, he . . . he’s been so nervous lately. As if he was going to get blamed for everything. He said they were investigating everybody involved. You . . . you too, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh yes. None of us has escaped the suspicion of MI5,’ Peter said bitterly.

  ‘Then I suppose you must have been upset about this woman who killed herself. His secretary, Mary something or other. Alec is devastated. I heard him crying last night, and I’ve never known him do that before.’

  Peter did not want to talk about Mary, but he was startled by what the woman had just said. Why should Anderson have been so affected? Mary Maclean may have been his secretary, but he had never shown any particular interest in her. Why should he be so distressed?

  ‘Did he talk to you about what happened?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘No. He’s said nothing. But he was so upset I . . . I began to wonder if there’d been something between them!’ The corners of her mouth turned down involuntarily, betraying her unhappiness.

  ‘No, definitely not. I can promise you that,’ Peter reassured her. But then what was the reason for his grief?

  ‘And then there was something they said on the television news, about the crisis being over. That seemed to upset him even more.’

  She looked at him expectantly, hoping that he might explain. But suddenly Peter had the uneasy feeling there was no time to lose: he had to get to Anderson right away.

  ‘I’ve just had a thought, Mrs Anderson. If the pub is not too far away, I might go and find him there. If I wait here until he gets back, it could make it a rather late night for all of us, don’t you think?’

  Janet Anderson was disappointed: she had learned nothing from him. Her face took on a look of resignation.

  ‘Well, you can try,’ she conceded, staring at the floor. ‘The pub’s called the Maid’s Head. It’s just down the bottom of the road. Turn right out of the house and keep going. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘All right, I’ll try there. Thank you,’ Peter smiled. ‘If I don’t find him, I’m afraid I’ll have to come back and disturb you again. I hope you won’t think me a dreadful nuisance.’

  ‘No,’ she shrugged, ‘I shall be here.’

  She stood on the doorstep watching him as he headed down the road.

  The pub was crowded and smoky. Amid such a sea of faces he began to doubt whether he would ever spot Anderson. However, being tall and stocky, he managed to ease his way through to the bar, and looked about him uneasily. But what exactly would he say to Anderson if he did find him? He still did not know.

  ‘Yes?’ the barman asked.

  ‘Er, a half of bitter, thanks.’

  A shout of jubilation caused him to focus on the far corner of the bar-room. A burly youth was waving a billiard-cue in the air.

  ‘That’s sixty-five pence.’

  Momentarily the barman drew back his attention.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He sipped at the glass and peered through the fog of cigarette smoke. The men at the billiard table looked too young to be company for Anderson. He scanned them carefully to be certain, but Alec was not there.

  Damn!

  Drinkers eager to refill their glasses before closing-time were elbowing him away from the bar. He eased back through the crowd, searching faces, searching looks. Suddenly he stopped.

  Alec Anderson was sitting at a small table just six feet away.

  He was not alone and he looked like death. Peter backed away so as not to be seen. He found a shelf by the wall where he could rest his glass, and from where he had a clear view.

  The man sitting opposite him must be Karl, Peter thought. He had thin, straight hair, a pointed nose, and metal-framed spectacles, and seemed to be issuing instructions. His eyes never left Anderson’s face, which was pale and slack-jawed, as if from shock.

  Peter sipped his beer, and kept his eye on the two men. It was ten to eleven and the landlord was calling for last orders.

  Anderson had an almost full pint in front of him, but was making no effort to drink it. The other man had been drinking spirits, and his glass was empty.

  Suddenly Anderson shook his head as if in violent disagreement. The other man eyed him threateningly and reached down to the floor. His hand came up clutching a brown-paper parcel the size of a small book.

  Anderson looked thunderstruck as the parcel was pushed across the table. He clearly did not want to take it, but Karl thrust it into his hands.

  A group of people sitting at a large table in front of Peter stood up suddenly, and began to pull coats over their shoulders, obscuring his view.

  ‘Hurry up, for God’s sake!’ he hissed under his breath.

  They took their time, though, discussing whose house they would return to for a nightcap. Finally Peter took his glass from the shelf and pushed his way round them, desperate not to lose sight of Anderson. But he saw with annoyance that the two chairs were now empty, Anderson’s full glass still standing on the table unconsumed. He looked desperately round the exits and caught sight of the back of Karl’s head disappearing through a door into the street.

  He dumped his glass and hurried after them, but ran into the group who had been blocking his view. They were still debating where to go as he tried to push through them.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’m in a terrible rush,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Careful!’ a woman shouted, as he trod on her foot.

  Outside he heard car engines being started in the small car-park. But surely Anderson would have come on foot?

  Then he saw them, on the pavement. Anderson was still being forcefully urged to take the parcel. Harsh words were clearly raised between them. Suddenly Karl turned and crossed the road to a large Mercedes. He opened the door, slipped inside, and drove off at speed. Anderson stared after him.

  Slowly Anderson turned and began to walk up the hill towards his house. Peter strode briskly after him.

  ‘Alec! I thought it was you. I’ve been looking for you,’ he announced breathlessly as he came up to him.

  Anderson swung round, not recognising the voice at first.

  ‘What the hell . . .? Peter? What are you doing here, for God’s sake?’ he stammered.

  ‘I was looking for you. Wanted to talk to you. Your wife said you might be down at the pub.’

  The astonishment on Anderson’s face turned rapidly to bewilderment and then to fear as he began to suspect what Peter might have witnessed.

  ‘I was having a drink with someone,’ he explained lamely.

  ‘So I saw.’

  ‘What . . . what is it you want?’ His voice seemed flat with dread.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about Mary.’

  Anderson’s face crumpled. He looked like a schoolboy faced with a caning.

  ‘I don’t see there’s anything to discuss,’ he said abruptly, starting up the road again.

  ‘What is it that man Karl wants from you, Ale
c?’

  Anderson’s head spun round like a snake’s. His eyes were wild and desperate, searching Peter’s face for a clue to what he knew. Joyce sensed he was on the verge of finding out everything he wanted to know.

  ‘You’ve got a choice,’ he needled. ‘You can either tell me about it or tell John Black. If I call him, he’ll be round like a shot.’

  ‘Oh Christ!’ Anderson’s words came in a strangled gasp. ‘Look, why don’t you p-piss off! It’s none of your business!’

  ‘Yes, it bloody well is!’ Peter snapped back. ‘Mary was murdered, and you know all about it!’

  He peered at the package under Anderson’s arm. It had a broad, hard edge, like a frame.

  ‘What is in that parcel, Alec? Another picture?’

  Anderson seemed paralysed, unable to respond. The brown package clamped under his arm felt like a ticking bomb.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ He said at last, his words hardly audible. ‘Look, Peter, I need time to think. That’s not too much to ask, is it?’ His eyes begged. ‘Please? Look . . . I admit I’m in some trouble, but I’m sure I can find a way out if only I have time to think.’

  Peter grabbed him by the arm and began to hurry him up the hill.

  ‘I can ring from your house. It’s down to MI5 now.’

  ‘Peter, Peter!’ Alec croaked. ‘I’ll get life! Do you understand? Life! And for Janet that’ll mean death!’

  For a moment Peter was silenced.

  ‘Do you mean . . . are you telling me that you killed Mary?’ he asked aghast.

  ‘No, no! God no! Not me . . . Oh, Christ!’

  Anderson had become a pathetic, desolate figure.

  ‘I think you’d better explain, Alec. Then we’ll see if there’s a way to avoid bringing in the police. Come on, now.’

  The brass coach-lamp in the porch had been switched off. Anderson fumbled with his key, still hugging the parcel tightly. He opened the door and led the way inside.

  ‘You can leave your coat round here, Peter.’ He indicated a small cloakroom. Peter hung his raincoat on a hanger, next to a remarkably shabby brown overcoat. Anderson must use it for gardening, he guessed.

  ‘Alec?’ Janet called from upstairs. ‘Oh, I see you found each other,’ she continued, as Peter was led across the hall towards the library.

  ‘Yes, it’s all right, darling,’ Alec reassured her. ‘You go to bed. I’ll be a little while yet.’

  ‘I was in bed already,’ Janet grumbled, before disappearing.

  Alec closed the library door firmly behind them. At last he released his grip on the parcel, placing it on the desk. For a while he stood there, staring down at it, without a word. Peter sat in an upright Victorian armchair and waited. Anderson would start talking in his own good time.

  Alec expelled a deep sigh, then he pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  ‘You’ve seen these, have you?’ he asked, indicating the paintings on the walls. ‘Janet showed you in here?’

  ‘Yes, she did. They’re very fine.’

  ‘Well, they’re the reason I’m in this mess!’ he began to explain as he lowered himself into the swivel-chair. ‘Karl got most of them for me. Karl Metzger, that’s what he calls himself. I don’t know what his real name is.’

  Anderson put his hand to his mouth and tugged at his lower lip. His eyes seemed to beg for Peter’s sympathy.

  ‘Karl Metzger is a colonel in the East German intelligence service – the HVA. He’s a spy!’

  ‘Good God!’ Peter murmured.

  He had suspected something like that, but it was still a shock.

  Anderson’s face showed the helplessness of a child.

  ‘I only learned this two weeks ago. They set me up, Peter. They just set me up; it was the oldest trap in the book, and I fell right into it. But it really wasn’t my fault – I . . .’ His voice tailed away.

  ‘Go on,’ Peter urged grimly.

  Alec pushed his fingers underneath the rims of his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘I’ve known Karl for about a year,’ he went on awkwardly. ‘He joined our Friday group at the pub. Beer, billiards, dirty jokes – you know the sort of thing. All harmless fun and gets us away from our women-folk. Well, I must admit I liked the man when he joined us.’ He seemed pained at having to make this small confession.

  ‘He was funny – made jokes about the Germans, and there aren’t many Krauts who’ll do that. He said he was from West Germany, of course. I had no reason to doubt that. He said Hamburg was his home town. He’s in the travel business, sells German culture to tourists, or that’s what he said. Well, er, he and I became . . . sort of chums. We had plenty to talk about . . . specially the paintings. You see, we shared an interest in Victorian miniatures.’

  Anderson shook his head.

  ‘Shared an interest, huh! He was just setting me up, of course. But he was good, oh, he was good! He really knew his stuff. Must have taught himself the lot just to get me on his hook!’ He laughed bitterly.

  ‘Well . . . he knew what I collected. I only had three or four of them at that time, but he said he knew a dealer who specialised in them and who would look out for some for me at a reasonable price. They can be pricey, you see. And suddenly, one day in the pub, he appeared with a picture wrapped up in brown paper. That one there.’

  He pointed to the small gilded frame nearest to the door.

  ‘The thing was so elaborate – that’s what I can’t get over. I mean, in my sort of job you’re on your guard. Spies and so on. It never occurred to me that they would go to such lengths, just to make me feel everything was all right. That’s what the pictures were for – just to lull me into a false sense of security.’

  ‘But what happened exactly? I still don’t understand,’ Peter sighed with exasperation.

  ‘There were photographs,’ he whispered.

  He seemed reluctant to continue.

  ‘It was one weekend,’ he began sheepishly. ‘Karl said he and I had been invited to spend a couple of days at a house in Suffolk which belonged to the dealer who’d found the paintings for me. He claimed the man was keen to meet me, and it would be just Karl and me – no wives. It sounded interesting – a weekend talking with a real expert, and no women to be kept occupied.

  ‘And so it was . . . initially. The man said he was from Eastern Europe originally and had come to this country as a child, just after the war. He lived in a lovely old farmhouse with enormous gardens. The house was full of paintings . . .’

  Beads of sweat were breaking out on his brow.

  ‘He lived there on his own, but he had a . . . sort of servant. A . . . a young man.’

  Anderson’s face began to turn grey.

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ He shook his head, faltering.

  ‘What happened?’ Peter could guess the answer.

  ‘It’s difficult to explain it . . . cold like this,’ he stammered, wiping the sweat from his lip.

  ‘I mean . . . I’m not gay, I’m really not. But, it was just one of those occasions when the atmosphere made one think of doing things that one would never normally consider . . .’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Please . . . please try to understand.’ Anderson picked up a paper-knife from the desk and fiddled with it.

  ‘It was just the atmosphere. We were all very relaxed. We’d all eaten well and drunk plenty, and it was . . . bohemian, I suppose. The dealer and his servant were obviously homosexuals. It was the atmosphere – they might even have put something in my drink. And . . .’

  He was searching for the right words.

  ‘And I suppose there are plenty of normal men who think about having that sort of sex – think about it but never do it, because of the social conventions. But . . . but there weren’t any conventions that weekend, and so I . . . I did it!’

  He completed the sentence in a rush of acute embarrassment.

  ‘But there was a camera,’ he added in a whisper.

  ‘I never saw it, but there was a camera takin
g pictures of everything that happened.’

  He swallowed hard.

  ‘Karl said he would send the photographs to Janet, to the Prime Minister, to the Defence Secretary, to everyone necessary to ruin my career and my personal life. Janet – God! If Janet ever saw them! – it would kill her. She could never understand. She worships me, you know,’ he whispered pityingly. ‘Karl can destroy me and destroy everything dear to me. He’s got me where he wants me.’

  ‘And what exactly does he want?’

  ‘Skydancer! The full technical blueprints for the warheads!’

  ‘And you’ve given them to him?’

  ‘No!’ Anderson shouted defiantly. ‘No, I’ve given him nothing. Nothing at all. Not yet. But . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But I did agree to do it! I had to tell him that, Peter, I had no choice, don’t you understand?

  ‘I arranged to leave them under some leaves by a tree on Hampstead Heath, where he could collect them. Only I had a plan, you see. A trick so that he wouldn’t actually get any of the secrets.’

  He leaned forward, eager for Peter to accept his good intentions.

  ‘I reckoned that if I could make the handover go wrong in a very public way, I might be able to persuade him that the sudden security hoo-ha would make it impossible for me to get the stuff for him at that time, and that we should delay everything. That way I thought I could buy time to think. To try to work out a way of saving both the secrets and my own . . . situation.

  ‘So I pretended I had made a mistake about the place where I was to leave the papers, and I put the folder with just one sheet from the Skydancer plans inside a litter bin close to the real dead-letter box. You see, I knew that General Twining walked along that path every morning early, regular as clockwork. I occasionally go for early morning walks myself, and I’d passed the time of day with him there in the past.

  ‘So after I left the folder, I rushed back to some bushes where I’d hidden some old clothes, and dressed up as a tramp . . . wore an old overcoat –’

  ‘The one I saw hanging up in your cloakroom?’ Peter interrupted.

  ‘Yes. That one,’ Anderson answered, obviously put out that he had not thought to dispose of it.

  ‘Yes. You see, I reckoned that if I got back to the litter bin right away and pretended to be rustling through it I could stop Karl’s men collecting the folder, and could also see that it was conspicuous when the general came by. I knew he was a meticulous sort of man and was bound to pick up the mess.’