Master of Starlight

by Keith Short

  The Classico Calypso club just off Soho’s Dean Street was dark inside, even on this sunniest of days. As always, the club swayed to the rhythm of calypso and Bob Marley and the air was thick with exhaled vapour. Until Chekhov had caught sight of him in disguise, Leon felt secure in this place. Why would Chekhov’s security team think of looking for him among a set of Rastafarians who’d latched on to the Classico philosophy for mixing intellectual socialising and music? And even if they were to start enquiring about a missing scientist in here, as far as the club’s staff and clientele were concerned, he was just one of the many casual visitors to this place from the Classico fraternity. The risks of him being tracked down had now increased, but at least these people knew nothing about nothing, as they put it, if they suspected the authorities to be in their midst.

  A group of middle-aged men were laughing and drinking at the corner of the bar. Among them he spotted a tall, slim man who wore a seventies-style flared velvet suit and had an Afro haircut that looked like it was connected to an electrical generator. He was scowling at him. The man tapped one of his colleagues on the back, pointed across the room then strode menacingly towards him. As he approached, his mouth opened into the broadest of grins to reveal a perfect set of shiny white teeth; he slapped Leon heartily on his shoulder and bellowed with laughter.

  ‘Yo, Mahler. Here to listen to some real music?’

  ‘Hi, Marley. How are tricks?’ Leon greeted his acquaintance with a high five. ‘Listen, friend. I was wondering if there’d been any enquiries about someone who fitted my description.’

  ‘Always people asking about other people in this joint. Who ya expecting, man? Not in any trouble, I hope?’

  ‘No trouble. There’s a good friend of mine who could be in London at the moment. Take a look at this photo.’ Leon handed his wafer to Marley.

  ‘No offence, man, but these white women all look the same to me. That one could have been in here, I suppose. In fact, churning the old grey matter, someone a bit like that was asking after a Polish dude a couple of hours ago. Wouldn’t be you, would it?’

  Leon felt his heart racing. This could be Magda. She was looking for him as he’d hoped. ‘Can you tell me about her? Did she give a name? Did she say where she was going?’

  ‘Whoa, steady on, my man. Here, let me have another look at that photo.’ Marley pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. ‘Can’t be sure, hmm – maybe. Your woman did mention a name, though – Chekhov, I think it was. Yeah, that’s right. Chekhov.’

  Magda? Or one of Chekhov’s agents? ‘Did she say anything else, anything at all?’

  ‘Nothing that made sense. The woman did say something really odd, though – “pawn to e4,” she said. It’s an opening chess move, isn’t it?’

  ‘I have to go. Call me immediately if you see her again. But don’t let on you know me.’

  ‘You can always count on big Marley.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Marley. You’re the man.’

  As he set off towards the exit, Marley laughed loudly. ‘Hey. Not staying for a drink, Mahler?’

  ‘Some other time, my friend.’

  Leon left the club, took a quick look at his surroundings and summoned up an image of the London Metro map in his head. It’s either Piccadilly Circus or Leicester Square. Which one? They’re about the same distance from here. He looked at his watch; it was 4.10 p.m. There wasn’t time to get to both stations – he’d go for Piccadilly. Get running, Leon.

  He arrived at the forecourt of Piccadilly Circus Metro station with five minutes to spare, found the Metro map and, still panting hard, stared at it in anguish. He’d got it wrong. Leicester Square was the nearest station to the Classico Calypso club – just. Damn it! Magda would have waited there for the agreed half hour in accordance with the rules of the childish game they played when they were dating. She’d be leaving there this very moment – to go who knew where. But she was in London looking for him and she wouldn’t give up. I won’t give up either, Magda. I’ll find you.

  CHAPTER 38

  The powerful marching beat of Holst’s The Planets suite was almost deafening as Magda entered the Classico Philharmonic bar. This was her tenth Classico bar of the day and, looking around, it wasn’t one she’d expect Leon to frequent. But she’d leave her coded message anyway.

  The interior was filled with a life-size hologram of a symphony orchestra and the booths around the edge of the room were stuffed with young people, laughing and chatting away in silence – standing room only. She studied the customers as they percolated through the image, making their way to and from the bar. Most of them were likely to be regulars but, with no obvious top-bananas, Magda decided that the receptionist would have to do.

  Beyond the acoustic limiter, the stifled strains of ‘Mars, Bringer of War’ became instantly tolerable – relaxing even. Sitting behind the desk in the anechoic booth was a young girl whose natural feminine looks were ruined by her stubby short hair and jeans held up with braces. She spoke in an echo-free voice.

  ‘Yes, madam, what can I do for you? Are you planning to join one of our groups today?’

  ‘No, I’m just looking for someone. I’d like to take a walk around and see if he’s here, but first I’d like to leave a message in case he comes in later.’

  ‘How would I know him? You can see how busy we get.’

  ‘Simple. He’ll ask if anyone has left a message. Tell him “knight to f6.” Can you remember that?’

  ‘And who shall I say was enquiring about him?’

  ‘He won’t ask.’

  After a single tour of the premises, Magda stepped out into the street and took a deep breath of city air to purge the oppressive atmosphere she’d absorbed inside the bar. I can’t believe Leon would go into a place like that. She glanced at her watch; it was three thirty. Have to move on. Can probably do four or five more venues before I start making my way to the Shard.

  Magda stopped at the open doors of Classico Choral and listened to Mahler’s eighth symphony playing inside the bar. One of Leon’s favourites – redemption through the power of love. He’s been here. I feel it. With less than forty minutes to lodge the coded message and make her way to the city’s tallest structure, she’d make this her last visit of the day.

  The bar was sparsely populated, despite the fact that office workers would be pouring out by now; she may even have time to speak to every customer. Before she could make up her mind where to start, a giant of a woman emerged from one of the booths and minced her way across the floor in a farcical attempt to gyrate and twirl in time to the music. Magda was struggling to suppress her laughter. When was the last time she found anything funny? My God! Who’s this?

  ‘Hello, darling,’ the woman said in a deep, manly voice. ‘You have a message for me?’

  ‘What? How do you know that?’

  ‘So, I’m right. I thought you looked his type. Pity really, I fancied him myself.’

  Careful not to mention any names. This could be a trap. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Didi. I come here every day. It’s the only gay Classico bar around these parts. Not sure what your boyfriend was doing in a place like this but he did seem keen on finding you. He is your boyfriend, I take it?’

  ‘OK, I’m going to leave the message. If he comes back in, tell him “knight to f6.” He’ll know what I mean.’

  ‘Well, your luck’s in, sweetie. Now that you’ve told me that, I can give you his message. I must admit, these queer games you play are beyond me.’

  Magda left the bar trembling with excitement. Knight takes queen. No specified time. Where’s the nearest hotel?

  The Bloomsbury Hotel was lavishly decorated and furnished in the deep reds and blues of the Art Deco period, with polished brass everywhere. Magda walked through the open-plan lounge and reception area and made her way to the bar. Leon would have left his message here, she decided
as she took her seat.

  ‘Yes, madam, what can I get you?’ said the tuxedo-clad barman.

  ‘Fresh orange with ice, please.’ OK. Need to tread carefully here. ‘I’m a visitor to London. Over here for a mathematics seminar and one of my colleagues should have left a message here for me?’

  ‘I’ll go and see. Your drink, madam.’

  A minute later, a smart-suited middle-aged woman came across with a folded note. ‘Yes, your colleague was in earlier. He explained that you would need this before your conference. This mathematical stuff looks gibberish to me.’

  ‘Thank you.’ And thank you, Leon Dabrowski. You’re so predictable. I wonder how many other hotels you’ve left a note like this in. She took the note and her drink to a table in the corner of the lounge. On the sheet of paper was a long alphanumeric string. You’re certainly going to lengths to cover your tracks, Leon. They must have you scared rigid. Magda mentally split the string into chess moves. I see it. It’s a set of directions. Very clever, physics boy.

  CHAPTER 39

  Leon still wasn’t sleeping, yet he felt positive for the first time in weeks. He would set off for Soho within the hour and continue to drop his covert messages around the place. There were hundreds of Classico bars if you included those outside the Soho area and he’d have to consider extending his searches. In the meantime, he’d try and contact Pavel and, with his department’s help, restore the surveillance activities. Come on, Schumann. You haven’t finished the job yet.

  The doorbell chimed.

  Schumann. Thank God. He crossed the floor and opened the door.

  ‘Still using prime numbers as your entry code?’ she said to him with a straight face.

  ‘Magda!’

  Magda flopped into his arms. The tiny shudders from her sobbing spread from the back of her head to her shoulders. He guided her towards the couch, sat her down and eased himself alongside. She’d lost weight but her arms felt firm, like iron. Magda rested her hand on his knee and started to speak, but she didn’t look him in the eye. ‘Leon, I’ve . . .’ She covered her eyes with her free hand.

  ‘Don’t try to tell me now, my love. We have plenty of time for that.’ He held her in silence for a few moments. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Chekhov. I went to see Chekhov. It was all I could think of.’ Leon stroked the back of her hand. ‘He gave me the name of your colleague, Pavel. I managed to contact him in Poland – something Chekhov wasn’t able to do himself, by all accounts. Pavel didn’t believe my story or even who I was, but he did let on that you frequented Classico bars. I’ve been scouring them for days. What have you been up to, Leon? You look so ridiculous.’

  ‘You have to believe me, Magda, I’ve searched for you every waking minute, with the help of some serious people and some incredible technology. They had you so well hidden.’

  ‘Chekhov told me . . .’ She started to weep. ‘It was there, beneath my feet. That’s where they kept me all this time. Underneath Fusion headquarters. Underneath where I was sitting with Chekhov and where you were working.’

  ‘But I wasn’t working there. I don’t work there anymore. I’m a fugitive from Chekhov. He must have also told you that. The important thing is we’re back together. And we need to go home – to Poland.’

  ‘Chekhov desperately wants to find you, Leon.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There’s a lot I don’t understand. And there are things we need to talk about.’

  ‘Shush. Let’s go through to the bedroom.’

  ‘I want that, Leon. But we can’t make love just yet. Not until we’ve talked.’

  ‘I know that too, Magda.’

  Over the days that followed, Leon listened to Magda’s account of her life in Eight Over Nine. She explained how the brothel’s name related to the largest fraction of an iceberg lying below the surface of the sea. Living below the surface, she didn’t see daylight for months. He began to understand how she could come out of this ordeal with such fitness and yet be a psychological wreck. He almost collapsed with relief when she told him she hadn’t been used as a prostitute.

  Magda seemed just as keen to hear about Leon’s experiences.

  ‘How is your mother, Leon? You haven’t mentioned her.’

  ‘She’s stable, from what I’ve been told. But I haven’t seen her since that night you were taken from me.’

  ‘That’s appalling. How could you be so callous?’

  ‘I know. I’m not proud of it. But we’ll be going home soon. She won’t even know how long it’s been since we were last with her.’

  With an air of duty, Magda returned to her story – the black drum, her race . . . But Leon needed to know more about this PTI Sergei character and his assistance with her escape from the brothel. ‘Why did he do it?’ he asked. Why would he turn his back on his employers, renege on his duties and help her to escape?

  ‘All in good time,’ she told him – and there was something about that turn of phrase that wasn’t Magda.

  The rain thrashed against the windows, driven by a force six. The sort of evening when one of them would have said we don’t have to go out tonight. The sort of evening when they would turn on the music and curl up on the couch, exchange views on the world they lived in and end up in love-talk. Magda’s abduction had destroyed all that; their relationship wasn’t the same. He’d have to make sure it didn’t destroy the rest of their lives.

  ‘There’s a matter I want to discuss with you about Eight Over Nine.’

  At last she’s going to tell me the truth about Sergei.

  ‘Sergei helped me in a way that took me by surprise.’ Leon braced himself. ‘He let me have access to a confidential database.’

  This wasn’t what he was expecting.

  ‘A database that contained details on every girl in the brothel, including me. And do you know what my file contained? It contained a report, Leon. Written by one of their security officers. A report on you.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean? Are you suggesting I had something to do with all this? Your capture and incarceration were down to me in some perverse way?’

  ‘I’m not sure what it means. I just know from what they’re saying in that report, there’s some issue about the identity of your parents – your mother Lynne and your biological father. They’re saying you aren’t who you claim to be. What do you think it means?’

  Her disclosure did nothing to quell his curiosity about Sergei. To the contrary, he was desperate to know the truth. He couldn’t hold back his frustration any longer. He turned on Magda for the first time since they’d been reunited – for the first time in their lives.

  ‘Look, Magda. I realise this doesn’t stack up and I’ll look into it when I get the chance. In the meantime, I’m more interested in getting to the bottom of this business with your PTI, Sergei, or whatever he calls himself. Don’t think I’m jealous, but from what you’ve been telling me, there’s been something going on there. I can see the guilt in your eyes every time you mention his name.’

  ‘Guilt? Jealousy? These are new words for our dictionary, aren’t they?’ Magda screwed up her face. ‘Yes, Leon, there was something going on between us,’ she yelled. ‘If you must know, he had sex with me. But there was a reason I had to let him. And in your present frame of mind I’m not willing to discuss that. To hell with you, Leon Dabrowski, I’m going to bed!’ She stormed out of the room and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Make a drink and have another go tomorrow. They would both have calmed down by then. Maybe that would give him the chance to tell her about Mary and the visits to all those brothels?

  There was a new air of tranquillity about the place in the morning. They could behave as reasonable human beings, without arguing.

  ‘You select the music, Magda. Order something serene and relaxing. I’ll get the coffee,’ he shouted through from
the kitchen. ‘I’ve booked our flights to Krakow, by the way. We’re flying from Manchester.’ Chekhov wouldn’t be expecting that; he’d be checking passenger lists at the London airports. He tried to tell himself they were safe but if Magda could have seen his face, she would have realised he was terrified.

  The revelations continued. Leon suppressed a grimace as frank and full details unfurled about Magda’s seduction of Sergei. He tried to understand and accept what she’d done. But it cut him like a sharp knife. He listened with contrived indifference to what she had to say, refusing to give any reaction. But inside he was simmering with hurt. It became obvious that Magda couldn’t wait to finish her confession and move on to a different subject. He told her about his encounters with the prostitute, Mary.

  ‘If Mary is right, that makes her your half-sister.’

  ‘She’s not right. As I’ve already said, I’ll get around to carrying out the research that she hasn’t bothered to do. I’m a scientist, am I not?’ He looked up and mentally kicked himself when he saw the sadness in her eyes. She was only trying to help. And if truth be told he was jealous of Sergei, even though his instinct told him this hadn’t been infidelity. What Magda did was so brave. She’d risked everything for their love. As their eyes locked together, he knew that he was the one looking guilty now. ‘I do appreciate what you’ve told me and I’ll do as you suggest. I’ll go back through the historical records and find out how the statements in their report could have arisen. And you must want some answers yourself.’