Faithless

by Tony Walker

  Greg laughed, "I was forgetting you was a Jock," and then he darted a glance to see whether he'd overstepped the mark. "No offence."

  "None taken."

  "Sorry, if I was a bit prickly. I don't like things fucking up."

  "We didn't fuck them up," said John.

  "There's time yet," said Greg. The radio crackled again. "Target has just got on a Number 15 bus from Piccadilly Circus, eastbound".

  "That's ok," said Greg. "We can get behind that. It's when they hop on and hop off between stops. The backs of the Routemaster buses are open and the traffic in the middle of town is slow, they can just jump from one to another going in opposite directions. Makes it really hard to follow them. We'll sit back and if he does get out, we hit the street again. Should have let Sam drive."

  Sam heard his name and looked up from reading the football results. "What boss?"

  "Get ready to drive in a minute."

  "Ah yeah, sure," and he went back to the paper.

  "Come on," John said to Greg, "Let's move."

  Car 1 with John in it made its way down towards Trafalgar Square and caught sight of the No 15 turning the corner into the Strand. There was a knot of traffic just outside Charing Cross Station. They came to a halt about five cars behind the bus. Then it went off again. Stopping and starting at the bus stops, picking up people like a big red bee alighting on flowers and bumbling its way along to Aldwych. Still Vinogradov didn't get off.

  "Wonder where he's going," said John.

  "That's the great thing about this job," said Greg. "It's a life of surprises."

  "Like the Prefab Sprout song."

  "Sorry?"

  "Just a song."

  "University music is it? I prefer Wham! myself."

  John laughed. Greg was still fixed on the stereotypes of middle class officers and working class grunts. He knew nothing about John. John didn't want to fight, he liked and respected the guy.

  They continued their slow progress along Fleet Street, up Ludgate Hill, past St Paul's and towards Tower Hill.

  "That bus goes right through to Blackwall," said Sam who had finished his paper and was sitting up.

  The bus came to another halt opposite the grey limestone walls and turrets of the Tower of London, gleaming in the February sun, John heard himself take a surprised in-breath as he saw the tall, dark-haired figure of Vinogradov step off the back.

  "Ok Johnny boy - out you get. You and me. Sam take the car when I go."

  They pulled over with a haste that all the years of Greg's experience made look like a casual stop. John saw Vinogradov halt and quickly look behind him but there was a gaggle of tourists on the pavement. They hadn't been spotted.

  Greg went ahead and John followed about ten yards behind trying to appear grey and unnoticeable. Vinogradov ducked into the subway and went through the concrete tunnel to emerge on the Tower side of the road. John lost sight of him but heard Greg say on the radio, "He's not being very careful. He thinks he's on his own."

  Then John came out of the tunnels and could see Vinogradov hurrying on his way ahead. He wasn't heading for the Tower - he was going down towards the river. The road there was narrow and a crowd of Japanese tourists appeared from the arch that led to the path along the embankment. Greg held back and then skilfully mingled among walkers on their London vacation. Instead of right down the riverbank, Vinogradov turned left towards St Katherine's Dock. He went past the statue of the Woman and Dolphin and into the marina basin with its plush yachts and blocks of expensive modern apartments huddled up to the edge of the water. Vinogradov was in a hurry. He looked at his watch and then went quickly up the steps of the Dicken's Inn.

  Dicken's Inn was a huge warehouse that had been converted into a pub. The wooden beams and floor were dark and even on a bright summer's day it was gloomy inside. It had lots of nooks and crannies

  "Let's go in," he heard Greg over the radio. "We'll have to look round a bit to find him. Try not to be too obvious."

  The fridges and lights from the electric beer pumps gave a strange anachronistic appearance as they glowed behind the mock 19th century wooden bar. The floor was strewn with sawdust to keep the atmosphere. There were various groups of people sitting in corners or standing around the bars but it wasn't full. There were men in suits, presumably supposed to be at work, or perhaps this was work, talking the talk, buying drinks for customers, sealing deals, Then there were various tourists - Italians, Americans, Koreans enjoying their taste of Olde England - but no Vinogradov.

  Greg came over to him. "I've got the other cars to park up and come and fill the place up. The more eyes the better -there's so many corners. Fancy a pint?"

  "At work?"

  "My job is looking like I'm not at work. What'll it be?"

  "Pint of bitter."

  They walked over to the bar.

  "What if he walks out?" said John.

  "I've done this before" smiled Greg. "I've got my diamond geezers loitering. But our Russky looked like a man with an appointment. I think he's meeting someone."

  "I think you're right."

  The pretty blonde barmaid asked what they wanted and Greg ordered.

  "She sounded Australian," said John.

  "You don't get out much do you? All London bar staff are Australians or New Zealanders. She was quite tasty too."

  "Didn't notice."

  Greg laughed.

  John said, "I'm happily married."

  "But you can still look Johnny boy. It's like when you go to the Art Gallery. You can't have the pictures but you can still enjoy their beauty."

  "Do you go to many art galleries, Greg?"

  "About as much as you go to dog races."

  Then John saw Vinogradov on the other side of the long bar talking to a slightly unkempt English looking man.

  "There," he said and Greg looked over.

  "Nice. I wonder who that is."

  Vinogradov bought the man a beer and got himself what looked to be whisky. And then, as if great friends, Vinogradov briefly touched the man's arm and guided him to a snug. Where they sat was closed off to the rest of the bar on three sides. John could see their glasses on the table made from a wooden barrel. He could see Vinogradov's left leg and occasionally his hand as he picked up his glass or when he gestured to make a point.

  "What I wouldn't give to hear what they are saying," said John.

  Greg shrugged. "We're the wrong bit of A Branch. We don't normally listen too."

  John, "I feel so antsy. I want to move in now."

  "Drink your drink. Learn patience and wait. Want some pork scratchings?"

  Vinogradov carried on his inaudible and barely visible conversation for about an hour. John declined another beer though Greg partook. The radio was quiet and John wondered what the other members of the team were doing to fill in the long gaps between action.

  And then suddenly, Vinogradov got up. He left the other man sitting. He appeared to be saying goodbye and then strolled out. John kept his head down, studying the beer mats so that he didn't make eye contact. He heard Greg say quietly over the radio. "Target making an exit."

  "Let him go," said John. "We know where he lives. I'm more interested in the other guy."

  "Ok," said Greg to the radio. "Let him go. We're after his contact. Await my word."

  About five minutes later, as if he had waited just long enough to be discreet, the other man got up. He was about 30, slim, hair unfashionably long - light brown and wispy. He was wearing a denim jacket and faded blue jeans. On his feet was a pair of suede desert boots. He did not look influential or well connected.

  "Let's go big fella," said John.

  "Ok, boss," said Greg. He drained his pint. "Keep your knickers on."

  They followed the man, known on the radio simply as "Contact" to Tower Hill Tube station. He caught a Circle Line to Liverpool Street where he changed to the Central Line, heading east.

  The man sat in the train, staring blankly ahead of himself like all the other pass
engers. John was in the same carriage. The target appeared unaware that he was being followed. He got off at Bethnal Green. They followed him up the station stairs. Liz was taking the lead. The cars were coming to meet them when they got to the street. The contact made no attempt at anti-surveillance, walking blithely along the road.

  John heard Liz say, "This guy's not a professional."

  And then the contact turned up Bethnal Green Road and then after a few yards left in into Pott Street up into the entrance garden of a block of council flats.

  "Stand back a bit Liz," said Greg who was now beside John out of sight on the main road.

  "Of course. I'm not an amateur. He's gone upstairs. It's going to be tricky."

  There were external staircases leading to different decks where the front doors of the flats were. The railings had bicycles chained to them and there was washing out, hopeful that the February sun would dry it.

  Then he heard Liz's voice. "Got him. No 22 Newcourt House."

  John turned to Greg. "He didn't look like the source of intelligence to get Moscow Centre jumping up and down."

  "You never know. Could be Vinogradov's lover?"

  "Could be," smiled John. "That would be a nice angle to exert a bit of pressure on Vinogradov. Trouble is, they didn't snog."

  Greg took out his earpiece. "Whoever he is, our job's finished. Yours is just begun."

  1952 - Edinburgh: John Gilroy was born in the city, not the local hospital, because his illegitimacy was a scandal in the narrow Protestant society they inhabited.

  John's father met his mother at a dance. He was a miner and she was a nurse. He was an Irish Catholic and she was a Scottish Presbyterian. He was James Fee, a well known political hothead - branch secretary of the Edinburgh Communist Party. He harangued everyone who would listen about Marx, Lenin and the forthcoming revolution. John's mother Elizabeth didn't care about the politics but she cared about him. He was handsome and passionate and loved poetry and her. But her parents wouldn't tolerate a Catholic or a Communist and so she kept their relationship secret. She fell pregnant on New Year's Eve 1952, after telling her mother she was going to a dance with friends.

  When her parents found out, her mother stopped speaking to her and her father told her never to see James Fee again.

  John was put up for adoption but his mother pined and stopped eating. Eventually his grandmother relented and let her keep the child. James Fee tried to see his son and the woman he loved, but the family closed ranks and uncles stood at the hospital door to tell him he wasn't wanted. There was a fight. James was badly beaten. He came back again with his brother, and they were both beaten. Elizabeth's family told him she didn't want him and told her he hadn't been there. They said he'd have come if he loved her but he didn't. They told her it so many times that she believed the lies and her heart broke. In tears, she wrote James a letter, telling him never to see her again, that she didn't love him and that she and his son would be better off alone. She enclosed a photograph of John, hoping it would break his heart. Even as she wrote the letter, she wanted him to ignore it and write back to say that he loved her. He did write back, time and time again, pleading to let him see his son, telling her he needed her. But her mother burned the letters. And when Elizabeth heard nothing, her hope faded and her heart became cold.

  When John was growing up at first he knew no different. He called his grandfather faither, and wasn't aware he had no dad. He became the apple of his grandmother's eye. She was a tough, working woman who spent her days at the carpet factory and her time off cleaning because cleanliness is next to godliness. There were bright summer days with the sunshine streaming in through the windows, the air full of motes of dust and his grandmother in her pinny singing Calvinist hymns in her falsetto. His grandfather was a coal miner and a supporter of the Labour Party. He read the Daily Express just to argue with its right wing politics. John used to sit with him, listening to the football results on the wireless on Saturday afternoons or on winter nights staring into the glowing coals of the fire while the old man made up stories of kings and queens and places he'd never been.

  John's mother Elizabeth worked at the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh and when she worked shifts his grandparents cared for John. In later years John had vague memories of his mother's boyfriends - an Egyptian doctor; another, in memory nationless and nameless, who scuffed the leg of the chair in the parlour they only used when important guests came. His mother was a good-looking woman and could have got anyone she chose, high or low.

  Eventually she caught the eye of William Gilroy - a local miner. Her mother and father thought their daughter could have done better, but William loved her and with his even temper and steady nature, gave her the security John's father never could have. William was a man of few words who liked a pint on a Friday night and who had a season ticket for Hearts football club. He didn't want John but accepted the situation and took him as his own because he wanted his mother. He was strict but not unkind and the beatings were few and usually deserved.

  It was only slowly that John began to realise that he was a bastard. For politeness everyone pretended that he was William Gilroy's boy and he even took his stepfather's name. Within the family, it was never mentioned that he was the offspring of a man long gone. Once there was an altercation with another boy when they were playing marbles on the street outside and John had won. The other boy had said angrily, "It don't care if you won. You've got nae faither."

  "Course I have a faither; William Gilroy's ma faither."

  "No, he isnae. Your faither's a Catholic and he didn't want ye."

  Monday 11th February 1985, London: The next day the weather was still clear but the morning was cold and there was ice on the pavement and a rime on the trees that lined the streets of North Finchley. While still in his warm bed, John Gilroy thought about a pre-work run through the icy dark streets and small parks, but had rolled over until the alarm rang again and Karen nudged him. "Switch that alarm off and get up you lazy bastard."

  John exhaled grumpily and got out of bed, careful not to move the duvet from Karen. "And I suppose even after that abuse, you'll be wanting a cup of tea?" he said.

  "That would be lovely." He could hear the smile in her voice from under the duvet.

  John went through to the kitchen and started the kettle boiling. Their twin daughters Morag and Eilidh stirred in their cot.

  The kettle boiled, the tea was made. John smiled and handed Karen the mug. "Are you aw' reit the day, hen?" He spoke affectionately in Scots.

  "I'm fine apart from the understandable lack of sleep. I'll be better when my braw husband goes and does a good day's work and brings back pennies to feed our fine babies. Even though I don't really approve of what you do for a living."

  "Let me get a shower and a slice of toast before sending me out."

  "I'll let you do that," she smiled and leant up to put her arms round him to give him a long kiss. She loved him. He knew it and whatever else happened in the world, that was an island of security.

  After the shower, dressed in his grey suit with a sober dark blue tie, John kissed his sleepy wife and their baby daughters and made his way in the grey morning light along icy streets from their small flat to Woodside Park Tube Station where he caught the Northern Line south into the centre of London.

  He was headed for an office building at the top of Gower Street which housed MI5's counter espionage K Branch. At the door he showed his badge to the security officer and went through into the building. K4, John's section, monitored Russians in the UK. He mounted the stairs and turned left passing the door to K4C where people worked researching and coordinating information produced by other K4 officers. The next door was the office of K4A - his boss. Stephen Haskings was a slim, brown haired, intellectual, brittle man with few people skills. John said hello as he passed but Stephen ignored him. Finally, he arrived at the door to the K4 "Long Room". The room ran the length of the Gower Street side of the building. At the south end was a huge map of London.
There were netted windows along the west wall looking down to the street. The net curtains served the dual purpose of keeping out prying eyes and catching shards of glass in case of a bomb outside. On the east wall were metal cabinets with combination locks where the officers and support workers who inhabited the long room locked their papers away every night. The room had a series of desks and chairs.

  John's friend Rob Parry was standing by his desk reading a report. Rob was in his shirt-sleeves, braces and tie; his left hand pushing absent-mindedly through his shock of blonde hair.

  "Morning Rab," said John.

  "Morning Jock. What oh this morning eh?"

  They played a game where they assumed national stereotypes. John pretended to be a mean-spirited, whisky loving Scot and Rob pretended to be an English Public school, air-headed rugger bugger. Rob in fact was a very astute, talented intelligence officer, currently in charge of investigating Russian students in the UK.

  John said, "I had a result. Was out with A4"

  "Really, do tell. Want a coffee?"

  John looked suspiciously over at the glass flask of oily black liquid on the peculator. "Is it Friday's?"

  "No, I made fresh. Tell me about your glorious victory."

  "You know Vinogradov at the Embassy?"

  "Suspected KGB?"

  "Aye, that's him. Got a follow all the way to St Katherine's dock where he met a dodgy English bloke."

  "Sounds interesting. Do we know who the contact is?"

  "Not yet."

  "You'll have a tale to tell at this morning's meeting." Then Rob spoke quietly "Sue and Stephen were in early - they looked like they're plotting."

  "Plotting how to make themselves look good - useless brown-nosers."

  "Let's go an grab the best seats before anyone else gets in."

  "You're sad Rob."

  They made their way to the meeting room the other side of the corridor from the Long Room. It was empty. They took their seats while Rob told John about the weekend he had that like most of his weekends consisted of drinking pints on a Friday, Saturday with his disastrous girlfriend Jane and coaching junior rugby on Sunday. Stephen and Sue entered the room looking self-important. Then the others filed in until there were about 16 people in the room.