by R. J. Dillon
‘Get a written apology do I?’
‘You get an understanding, an agreement, call it damn well what you like. You work on your own CO8 mandate and report to no other damn souls but me and Jane from now on. What you’ve got so far may have whet my appetite, but if you expect me to turn this Service inside out to prove Lubov was betrayed by one of us, I need a damn sight more before I officially commit. I’m not in the habit of offering a panacea for the comfort they bring either,’ he said, disheartened by the snow scene. ‘If it’s official sanction you want, then you’ve got it, but you’d better start to listen up because that’s all I’m giving and it’s bitter pill and it probably won’t make the slightest difference.’
In the ochre glow seeping in from a street lamp, Bailrigg had become a vague shadow; his face robbed of its clarity, its definition, all that remained was a featureless expression, a realisation that he had taken a decision that could ruin the Service.
‘Moscow might be doing more than protecting an asset,’ said Nick, watching as more sacks went into the back of a police van. ‘Thought about that?’
‘Then find the asset for a start,’ Bailrigg said rising with an effort to his feet. ‘You don’t deliver and the sharks are going to tear you apart. And you’ll have Teddy on their tails nibbling vindictively away. You remember that, hear me? I said remember that?’
‘I will,’ Nick assured him and they stared at each other for no more than a couple of seconds.
‘You keep your investigation low-key, no resources other than Redman can be spared.’
‘There’ll be no compromises.’
‘I know,’ said Bailrigg with a hearty sigh. ‘This isn’t your personal El Dorado or Golden Fleece, you’ve got to share.’ Bailrigg frowned and his whole sad face appeared ready to collapse. Below them the girl continued to whimper.
‘Oh, I will.’
‘You’re back on semi-official status now, Torr, bear that well. You’ve a brief, a point of contact, which is through Jane, and Jane alone.’
‘Why Jane?’
‘I don’t have to answer that, Torr,’ said Bailrigg. ‘But as we’ve reached an agreement, I’ll tell you. Jane is a fine officer, probably one of the best we’ve got, should be in my shoes within ten years.’
‘Politics again.’
‘Damn right it’s politics, which you don’t understand. And, may I remind you, we have to work within the law when you’re operating on home turf, which is something new for the CO8 ethos to come to terms with, but you’ll have to get used to it. And that’s why you’re only going to liaise with Jane, because she’s got the gumption to keep you under control.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘No you won’t, you’ll bloody obey it. I don’t enjoy my officers talking to outsiders, particularly those involved with the JIC, no matter if they’re old friends and distinguished company. You prove anything and it has to be writ in triplicate. You make a case that is thrown out and both of us take a long time to walk to the pavilion. No previous scores, no previous success to be included. Fail and we’re out. For good,’ said Bailrigg weakly, utterly consumed by the night’s events.
Nick pulled down the window and the whole frame rattled as he brought it home. They each remained in their different quarter of the room, the heavy presence of Moscow separating them.
‘As long as I know,’ said Nick and very quietly walked out.
Downstairs they were gouging out sockets and switches from the walls, someone had brought torches and their beams swayed through the darkness and dust. A young officer in overalls tacked up a necklace of bulbs, while a companion started a portable generator in the back garden. They were determined to pick the house clean thought Nick, a thorough and professional display to reclaim some pride. By morning, there would only be a carcass left.
In the front room the woman and children were gone, Jane and Roly locked in a serious conference under temporary lamps. Seeing Nick at the door, Jane touched Roly’s arm and came over.
‘You’ve been avoiding me,’ she said.
‘Have I?’
‘I thought I was a good friend? Isn’t that what we agreed in Devon?’
Shrugging, Nick asked, ‘Any leads?’
Stepping to one side pulling Nick with her, Jane stared at him, trying to work out his reticence, this sudden retreat into a defensive shell. ‘They moved in five years ago, introduced themselves to the neighbours using the worknames Janis and Brigita Voldes. Told them he was a freelance photographer, away a lot, and the neighbours say they’d see him some weeks, then not again for a while. Between looking after the kids, she ran a stall at one of the antique markets held in St. James’s churchyard Piccadilly.’
‘She a Lat too?’
‘Russian Lats,’ Blackmore chipped in, joining them. ‘My money is on them being a genuine Mr. and Mrs., especially with the sprogs. GRU sleepers I’ll wager, illegals doing what or with whom we don’t know. They could have been ruddy watering and feeding the Moscow team you allege was here for all we know. She’s pretty scared, caught cold and doing some talking, but that’s probably on account of the sprogs, make sure she keeps them, get to go home together.’ And Mr. and Mrs. Voldes had been exceptionally fast to react to a demand of help from Moscow’s mole, reasoned Nick. Once they’d been briefed on Nick’s false admission that he had a Latvian lead, things had moved apace, including the luring of Juris to his fatal meeting with the GRU team from Moscow. Nimble footwork all round.
‘We can’t be certain of anything yet,’ Jane said, fixing Blackmore with a grievous stare.
‘Well, they weren’t here on their hols anyway. Not with a short wave radio, three mobile phones, Canadian, US and Irish passports, £70,000 in euros, the equivalent in sterling and dollars, all tucked away,’ Roly retorted, sounding quite pleased.
‘So how come we missed him?’ demanded Nick, his tone scathing.
‘Didn’t come home, clever boy,’ said Blackmore, ‘tell him,’ he suggested to Jane.
‘They’d worked out some signals between them. Whoever was at home was responsible for security, using a kid’s night light in the upstairs window. Two different warnings for day and night. If it wasn’t sitting there during the day, whoever was out had to stay away. No light at night meant danger, if it was burning bright they could come on in.’
‘And tonight?’ Nick asked, already knowing the answer. ‘It was switched off wasn’t it?’ he demanded, his patience utterly sapped.
Neither Jane nor Blackmore felt inclined to confirm and Nick sadly shook his head, setting off down the hall.
‘You’ll have your ruddy pound of flesh,’ promised Blackmore as they reached the front door.
‘I’ll have more than that,’ said Nick.
When Blackmore reviewed this oblique statement of Nick’s much later, he only then appreciated that Nick’s words were uttered more as a warning, rather than a general observation.
A cab had somehow strayed through the cordon and made it down the street. Faced by all the police vehicles and the armed presence on the doorstep, it beat a fast tack the way it had come its engine whining in reverse.
‘Just keep me informed,’ said Nick.
Squeezing by the armed guard Nick tramped miserably back to the Range Rover, its driver passing his time with a crossword. Drizzle floated in front of Nick and the rattle of the generator in the garden mocked his going. Tomorrow would be another defeat he decided, but for who he couldn’t tell.
Twelve
Points of Closure
London, November
Nick arrived at the cemetery a good half-hour after everyone else. Paying off the taxi at the gates, Nick bought a handful of carnations from a wooden shack with a striped awning bleached pale by different seasons. He stole through the tall gates, a November mist heavier than sea fog smothering the high slopes too steep for graves. His nerves no longer relaxed, they were somebody else’s, on loan and out of tune with his body. He was in a constant state of readiness, aler
t and tense, everything became suspect; cars and vans were a threat, Moscow’s shadow inside every one of them.
Narrow paths surrounded him, stretching out between the crematorium and a railway cutting going nowhere except the unknown. A crumpled figure hobbled past on a path of gravel and rotting leaves, disappearing quickly as if he’d never existed. Nick halted and tried to remember his way amongst forlorn carved angels standing as glum as sentries, their faces mauled by age and sepulchral ruins hacked at by vandals. Twice he stumbled in the gloom over wiry roots erupting on the path. Somewhere a dog was barking and a harsh voice, girl’s or woman’s, called it to heel. Disturbed by the noise rooks cried in flight, coming down to hunch sullenly in the high branches. A council estate peered at him from his right, a sprawl of chintz, lace and satellite dishes separated by a concrete wall with holes beaten in it. Then he recalled how the path divided; to the left broad and uphill all the way to the crematorium, the other, the one he was on ran twisting and dipping towards the railway cutting. For this last part Nick took to the grass walking between graves, and sometimes over them glancing at the chiselled names on the headstones. On one plot a bright marble slab declared eternal hope with a confident assertion: ‘Resting Where No Shadow Falls.’ Only Moscow’s Nick thought, gaining his bearings.
Ahead a hearse and its dark cousins pulled up beside a low island of clay, a clot of mourners gathered around. Family and friends consoling Angie’s parents, her mother taking centre stage; respects paid, promises made to be broken. Nick knew there was no point approaching; Angie’s mother would only make a scene, accuse him of even being late for her daughter’s funeral, another example if one were needed, of his despicable, errant behaviour.
Hanging back until they’d all driven off, Nick walked slowly to the grave where Angie was joining their son. He cast his carnations on a pile of wreaths with their smudged accolades and depressing clichés the dead always receive, colour from the flowers proud against a bed of freshly turned clay. He tilted a couple of damp cards and they left a smear of white paste on his fingers, biodegradable just like Angie. One wreath outdoing the rest, an impressive display forming a huge cross of white and yellow chrysanthemums, its card written in Latin, ‘Haud vita est attero ut lost obses posterus,’ which Nick roughly translated as ‘No life is wasted when lost securing the future’. There wasn’t a name to go with the noble declaration and Nick tore off the card.
Of all roads and destinies Moscow has ruined mine, he thought. It is a war of attrition and Moscow is both my enemy and my hope, mine alone. Nick looked around, by the grave the mist was thinner, wisps of smoky air hovering a foot above the earth, a surreal impression of a curtain partly raised. Behind him he heard the reality of the traffic sluggishly pushing up the main road. Heard too the real fall of feet on gravel, pausing, starting up again. Magwitch come to demand a file? Or Lubov risen like Banquo for revenge?
‘You’ll make them pay,’ said Rossan, his thin shoulders hunched towards the grave.
‘Will I?’
‘Isn’t that the plan?’
Staring down at Angie’s coffin Nick wondered if he had a plan, if Lubov’s treasure wasn’t worth pursuing, its price too high. Not knowing if he’d be ever able to revisit Angie and Tom. ‘Come on, let’s walk.’
So they set off in a slow procession; Nick a pace ahead walking towards the cutting where the mist hung in tatters, the ground steaming as a weak sun stole into the gloom. Once more he had a vague uncertainty about him; introspective, a man with the answer but no question. A train sped past leaving the hum of electric current in the air.
‘Found anything on Georgs Lauvas yet?’ Nick asked.
‘Only bits and pieces that conform he was using freelance photography as cover,’ said Rossan, his warm breath streaming after them in the cold air. ‘There’s no trace of the other team members from the maisonette, but they’ve found a tattoo on the one hit by the train. Spetsnaz.’ Rossan looked Nick square in the eye, started to speak then hesitated.
‘What is it?’
Moistening his lips, brushing his nose with his thumb, Rossan delved into his pocket removing a small clear evidence bag. ‘Jane found this when she went through Anastasiya’s things before she interviewed her,’ he said, having to clear his throat, handing the bag across.
Nick felt a rush of blood heat his cheeks, turn his hand cold as he stared at the bag. Forcing his fingers to move he opened the bag, shaking out a Hirsh ring; inside its band a simple engraving bearing Angie and Nick’s names with the date of their marriage.
‘Thanks,’ said Nick, closing his hand gripping the ring tight.
A footbridge with smashed lights suddenly reared up in front of them. Nick took the rungs two at a time stopping three from the top and turning. ‘Moscow have used Angie to tie us in knots,’ he suggested, pocketing the ring.
With Nick leading the way they crossed the bridge. On their right a crescent of shops curving away, their lights streaking the mist with golden strands as smudged outlines passed their windows. A hairdresser’s offered cheap rates for pensioners, but none had been tempted as three stylists lounged by the door drinking coffee.
‘We do have a means of undoing the knot,’ said Rossan.
‘Enough for me to work on?’
‘They’ve been sweating Brigita Voldes, or whatever her damn name is, telling her if she cooperates now we can arrange a very swift flight home for her and the children. Downing Street and the FCO are extremely keen to buy into it, they have her down with Anastasiya as quick returns anyway, minimum fuss,’ said Rossan, passing Nick a folded square of paper. ‘You didn’t get that from me.’
‘She’s giving us the sprats,’ Nick suggested, glancing at the typewritten details, ‘giving Moscow time to tie off the remainder of the network.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to follow this up on your own, remember C’s orders. You’re back, but you’re out. You’re official, but you’re not. You report to him but you report to Jane.’
‘He’s scheming again, listening to Downing Street and assisting them to pack their political baggage.’
‘I don’t think some people appreciate you not being top of the wanted tree,’ Rossan confessed as they stopped outside a betting shop. ‘Hawick, C, Jane and Roly are continually locked in conference, the atmosphere poisonous enough to kill a canary stone dead.’
‘What they don’t know won’t harm them,’ said Nick, wondering exactly what they did know.
‘Mind how you go, Nick,’ said Rossan, patting Nick’s shoulder, walking off.
‘See you later,’ said Nick, lost in thought. Lighting a cigarette he stood there, watching the footbridge trying to determine if he’d actually seen a figure loitering on the other side or was it just the mist playing tricks.
Nick wrapped his fingers around the folded paper in his pocket; another trail to Moscow waiting to be uncovered he decided trooping off to Beckenham Junction station. I’ll rest soon he promised himself turning in time to see Pete Hindon, one of Bailrigg’s loyal surveillance officers – or in CO8 jargon, a footpad – faithfully in step.
On the train back to London Nick gazed distractedly from the window counting off the minutes, thinking of Lubov and all those who had died because of his secret. Of how death stalked him continually, how it always managed to be there at his side; as though he were tied inexorably to it, haunted, threatened, never allowed peace. Leaving Victoria station Nick huddled up his body and walked carelessly into a mean day. At some point Hindon had called for support from a mobile surveillance team, a Vauxhall Vectra locking on tight behind him. Very nice thought Nick, as Hindon’s familiar face cheerfully played follow my leader. But for now Nick concentrated on getting to Aldwych by bus from Millbank and from there on by foot; variations to a theme as he collected Danny’s BMW from the car park on Upper St. Martins Lane.
Thin arms of late afternoon river mist started to stretch out over the city, a wet haze forming on the windscreen. On every precious mile the Vectra refu
sed to let a car separate them; sticking so close Nick thought he was towing an old friend. Up to now his life seemed to be moving in tandem with phases of the earth – light and dark, sun and stars, people living, people dead. Nick drove into Plaistow parking by Upton Park, home of West Ham United football club. As he walked away from the BMW he heard the Vectra’s door click behind him; so you fancy a run for your money, do you? Nick set his eyes firmly ahead as the river mist thickened, dousing his face.
Glancing back every few yards Nick moved away from the stadium, a footpad faithfully in step, his very own incubus. Crossing William Morley Close he slowed to throw another glance behind. There was at least one footpad with the Vectra maintaining its distance Nick reasoned, travelling parallel with the river, the streets subdued and silent as drizzle fell. Nick turned without warning into a doorway of a rag merchants, its windows filled by coloured layers of clothes. When the footpad drew level Nick came out faster than he went in. He struck three times. The last combination of his knee and hand dropped the footpad in a groaning pile.
Impassively watching from the Vectra, the driver kicked the accelerator in applause. Game on thought Nick, walking off, the car clinging to his heels as he drifted through hanging bands of mist; his journey determined, his purpose equally resolute. All the while another footpad loped dutifully along behind him. Footsteps that we can never call our own, Nick repeated in a mindless canto, the headlights melting the sticky mist as he pushed on turning in a wide arc. For this side of the river still held him, here he had business to complete. Maybe Bailrigg wasn’t interested in his destination but preventing him from getting there, considered Nick quickening his pace.
The mist thicker now creeping up walls spreading itself out, reducing everything before him to dim and shapeless outlines. So that when he came to The Mayflower tavern on Royal Victoria Dock Road, the mist lay dense in its mock Tudor galleries giving the impression of the stern of a galleon run aground. And Nick a doughty pilgrim of a different age, snubbed the marmalade light and laughter of the tourist bar and headed instead into the back room and a bar much smaller where no attempt to recreate Dickens’s London had been made. With a whisky in his hand Nick settled at a table by the window. There was a full five-minute lull before the footpad crept into the bar, uncomfortable, edging through the solemn drinkers to buy himself a half, positioning himself by a fruit machine as though absorbed by the whirling skein of coloured lights.
