One False Move

by Robert Goddard

  And there he is, fully dressed, leaning against the worktop and moving stones on his pocket Go set. He smiles at me. ‘Good morning, Nicole. Popping out for a paper? Only it’s a long walk to the nearest newsagent.’

  ‘I thought it would be easier to, er …’

  ‘Leave without explanation?’

  ‘I was going to write you a note.’

  ‘An explanatory note?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Who were you talking to on the phone?’

  ‘It’s really better if I don’t tell you that, Lewis.’

  ‘I couldn’t catch what you were saying to him.’ I wonder if that’s completely true? Not that it matters. He isn’t going to tell me if it isn’t.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘How? The train?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you. All those cameras. If GCHQ are coordinating a search for you, using facial recognition technology in addition to everything else, then the police will have you off the train long before you reach London. By Swindon would be my guess.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Borrow a car. Take the back routes. Switch to a cab before I got too close to the congestion zone.’ Christ. It’s as if he’s reading a script written by Forrester. And sticking to that script is the best thing to do, of course. If only I could.

  ‘Got a car I can borrow, Lewis?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then.’

  ‘I haven’t got one.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m going into the Records Office this morning to make up for missing yesterday afternoon. We keep a pool car there for staff to use for visits to potential donors of records. Donors are often elderly. Not able to get to Gloucester easily. It’s quite a big county. Anyway, the keys for the car aren’t very securely stored, to be honest. You have to know where to look, of course. But if you do know …’ Martinek smiles. ‘I doubt it would be missed before Monday. If it wasn’t back by then, I mean.’

  ‘Why are you doing this for me?’

  ‘I didn’t take to Mr Lam. It would be nice to play a tesuji against him. Even vicariously.’

  I smile at him. ‘What’s a tesuji?’

  ‘A particularly clever Go move. One that isn’t obvious. One that’s more beautiful because of that. Tesujis can be very satisfying. Although I must admit I do have another reason for helping you get the better of him.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I want to go to Las Vegas.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like travelling.’

  ‘I don’t. But Las Vegas is where the big money is in poker. And I’m rather good at poker. It’s a piece of cake after Go. I’d want to travel in style, of course. First class flights. A five-star hotel. The full works. Including … a glamorous escort.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who’d pay all the bills.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, I suspect you could look the part if you wanted to. What you’re wearing now is just a disguise, after all. I can sense your inner vamp itching to be freed.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘And you do owe me some money. I’m sure Venstrom pay you quite generously. We’d split the profits, of course. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘No. I never joke about fun.’

  In any other circumstances, of course, I’d tell him to get lost, or words to that effect. But that wouldn’t be a smart move as things are. So, I just say, ‘Great idea, Lewis. Las Vegas? Bring it on.’

  And he looks delighted.

  Half an hour later, we leave. We walk briskly through the empty streets of an early Saturday morning. There are so few people around that anyone following us – following me – would be unmissable. But there’s no one.

  There’s no one at the Records Office either. Martinek has a key, of course. He leads the way in through the reception area and into a side-office. He unlocks a desk drawer, takes out some car keys and gives me one of his uninterpretable looks.

  ‘White Skoda parked round the side. Should have a full tank. Enough said?’

  ‘I am grateful, you know.’

  ‘Good. Because I intend to hold you to your promise.’ He gazes at me quite seriously, as if, at least in his mind, his Las Vegas fantasy is far more important than anything else I have to contend with. ‘Drive safely.’

  I follow in reverse the camera-free route Forrester used when we drove to Gloucester from London on Wednesday, though things go a bit wrong near Wantage and I end up heading south rather than east. It doesn’t really matter, because I reckon my chances of finding Mrs Lane at home are better the later I arrive. I’m impatient to lay hands on the tape, of course, but as long as I’m doing something to achieve that, I can keep my anxiety under control. Just.

  I finally reach London in the middle of a bustling Saturday afternoon. Family life in the capital swirls around me. The shops are busy. So are the roads. It’s grey and damp: anonymous London weather.

  I drop the Skoda off in the privately operated car park in Brixton Forrester chose last Sunday. I get the feeling the man running it recognizes me, which is probably not a good thing. But there are too many other not good things for me to worry about, so I just pay him the deposit and set off on foot.

  I’m at Mrs Lane’s house an hour later. My heart’s in my mouth when I ring the bell. She’s just got to be in.

  And she is.

  ‘Miss Nevinson.’ She greets me with a smile, then looks past me. ‘Mr Travers not with you?’

  ‘No, Mrs Lane. It’s just me. Have you … received a package for us?’

  I think I’ll break down and cry if she says ‘No’ to that. But what she actually says is, ‘Yes. It came this morning. From … well, from somewhere abroad. Just as Mr Bright said it would. Come along in.’

  We’re in her kitchen a few seconds later. It’s as tiny and orderly as I’d expect. I spot the package at once. A Jiffy bag with a strip of colourful stamps on it. The address is written neatly in block capitals.

  ‘Where’s Suomi when it’s at home?’ asks Mrs Lane. ‘That’s what it says on the stamps. Suomi.’

  ‘I think that’s Finland in Finnish, Mrs Lane.’

  ‘Really? Well, Mr Bright didn’t say where it was coming from. Only that I was to take good care of it until you and Mr Travers came to collect it. And here you are. Is Mr Travers all right?’

  ‘He, um, couldn’t come to London, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s a pity. I was hoping he could reassure me that Mr Bright isn’t in any kind of trouble.’

  ‘What makes you think he might be?’

  ‘Oh, something in his voice when he spoke to me.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Thursday morning. Very early. Though I sleep so little these days early and late aren’t very different to me. But it was certainly before seven o’clock. He said he was at the airport. He had to fly to Canada, apparently. Something to do with his mother.’

  ‘I gather she’s not well.’

  ‘That explains it, then. Still, I—’

  ‘About the parcel, Mrs Lane …’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear. Here I am, rabbiting on when you’re probably in a hurry.’ She picks up the package and hands it to me. ‘There you are. Don’t let me hold you up.’

  ‘D’you mind if I open it here?’

  ‘Not at all. If you don’t mind me seeing what’s in it, that is. Mr Bright was very cagey. Though I suppose that goes with his job.’

  I struggle with the package for a moment. Alvar Norrback seems to have completely encased it in Sellotape.

  ‘Use these scissors, dear.’ Mrs Lane hands me a pair.

  I cut through the Sellotape and tear the flap open. Inside, there’s an object so swaddled in bubble-wrap as to be invisible. I pull it out, unroll the bubble-wr
ap and there it is.

  An old-fashioned audio-cassette. On the label someone’s written: 24.09.89. I pick it up and stare at the reel of tape inside. It’s strange to think so much could be riding on a few words recorded on its surface.

  Then I notice Mrs Lane has a large, quite old-looking radio standing by the window. And it incorporates a cassette player.

  ‘Can I ask you a favour, Mrs Lane?’

  ‘Certainly, dear.’

  ‘Can I play this tape on that?’ I point to the radio.

  ‘Please do. I still have a lot of tapes I listen to. Andy Williams is one of my favourites. I expect you’ve never heard of him.’

  I’m so fixated on hearing what’s on Norrback’s tape that I fail to respond to the remark. I insert the cassette and press the Play button.

  Two voices, speaking in what certainly sounds like Chinese.

  Is one of the voices Hexter’s? I don’t know. I’ve never heard him speak. But there’s something off about one of the accents. The speaker isn’t Chinese. That’s for certain.

  The exchange is brief and rapid-fire. There’s one word I catch that sounds slightly like music. I wonder if it’s actually Moscow.

  After I’m sure they’re not going to say anything else, I rewind the tape and remove it.

  ‘Did you understand any of that?’ Mrs Lane asks.

  ‘Understand? No. Not exactly.’

  ‘But it’s important?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s very important.’

  What I feel most of all in this moment is empowerment. Suddenly, for the first time in a week, I have something to hit back with, something to use against these people who think I don’t matter, that I can be ignored until such time as I can be eliminated. I remember how angry I am. I realize my anger’s actually stronger than my fear. I’m just not going to let them get away with it.

  ‘One more favour, Mrs Lane?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is this the only cassette player in the house?’

  ‘Well, no. There’s another in my bedroom.’

  ‘I wonder … do you think I could borrow one of them?’

  ‘Borrow one?’

  ‘I need to be able to play this tape to other people. Today. Tonight. I can’t explain just how vitally important it is. You’ll have to trust me when I say, without any exaggeration, this is a matter of life and death.’

  She looks at me for a long time. She’s probably asking herself whether I’m in full possession of my senses. The answer seems to come out in my favour. ‘Well, actually, Mr Bright specifically said I was to trust you and Mr Travers. No one else. Just you. So, yes, you can borrow it. I’ll want it back, mind.’

  ‘Of course. One other thing …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could I use your phone?’

  ‘Hei.’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘What is your news?’

  ‘I have it.’

  ‘Good. What now?’

  ‘We should meet.’

  ‘I agree. I’m not far away. Where and when do you suggest?’

  ‘Beau Brummell statue on Jermyn Street.’ I don’t intend to explain why I’m going to meet him so close to the Ritz. The surprise visit to Billy Swarther I’m planning will have to come as a surprise to Norrback as well. ‘How soon can you get there?’

  ‘Give me one hour.’

  ‘OK. See you there.’

  Mrs Lane gives me a canvas holdall advertising Lloyds Bank to carry the radio cassette player in and lends me an umbrella as well. She’s clearly worried about the machine getting wet. I feel fleetingly guilty about more or less forcing her to let me have it. But if I’m to shame Swarther into some kind of cooperation, I don’t have any choice in the matter.

  ‘Take care,’ she says as she sees me off.

  ‘I will,’ I reply.

  I head for Hungerford Bridge. It’s going to take me a lot less than an hour to reach Jermyn Street, but I can kill time in Fortnum & Mason if I need to.

  My thoughts are already fixed on what Norrback and I are going to say to Swarther. I’m actually looking forward to the encounter. Maybe that’s what makes me less alert than I should be.

  I glance left and right when I reach Stamford Street, checking for a break in the traffic before crossing. That’s when I see something – or, rather, someone – familiar out of the corner of my eye.

  I whirl round. Roger Lam’s only a few yards away. He must have been watching Mrs Lane’s house. He smiles weirdly at me and makes some kind of Don’t worry gesture with his hands. The road ahead, on the other side of Stamford Street, looks pretty empty. Was that where he was planning to stop me?

  I don’t hang around to ask. I dash across the street, forcing one driver to brake sharply. He blares his horn. I look back and see Roger dodging after me. I can’t seriously hope to outrun him, weighed down by Mrs Lane’s holdall as I am. What am I going to do?

  I see a pub ahead and make for it. Safety in numbers is my calculation.

  I rush inside. The place is about half full. Almost all of the customers are men under fifty. They’re watching football on a large-screen television. No one notices me.

  Except the barman. I order a G & T. Thoughts whirl in my mind. How long has Roger been on my tail? Since I left Gloucester? Has he just been waiting for me to collect the tape so he can take it off me? And what’s he got in mind for me once that’s happened? I try to think clearly and quickly about what my options are.

  Then I realize what I have to do.

  ‘Hi, Nicole.’ He’s standing right next to me. It can’t be more than a couple of minutes since I entered the pub. ‘Let me pay for that,’ he goes on as my G & T arrives. ‘Peroni for me.’

  ‘There are a lot of witnesses around, Roger,’ I say, virtually through clenched teeth.

  ‘I don’t see any. They’re all watching the football, not you and me.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘We’re just standing here having a chat, Nicole. I haven’t laid a finger on you. And I’m not going to.’

  ‘What d’you want, then?’

  ‘You know what I want. Hand it over and we can go our separate ways.’

  ‘You must think I’m totally brainless if you think I’m likely to believe that.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been behaving pretty brainlessly this past week.’ His Peroni arrives. He pays for the drinks, then takes a swig from the bottle. ‘Cheers.’

  I’m going to go for it. ‘How long have you known your boss is a double agent for the Chinese?’

  ‘That’s a ridiculous question. Now, what did you collect from that house back there? A copy of the tape, I assume. Just give it to me and we can forget all about this.’

  ‘You tried to kill me, Roger. You think we can forget all about that?’

  ‘A week’s a long time in my line of work. We’ve got Joe and we’ve neutralized Forrester. Things are moving fast and delivering on a threat to you would be a needless distraction at this time. Provided you give me the tape.’

  ‘Maybe there’s another copy somewhere else. Thought of that, have you?’

  ‘Like I say, things are moving fast. If Norrback has the original buried in a bank vault in Helsinki, so be it. My instructions are to prevent you causing any problems right now. That’s all.’

  ‘What are your plans for Joe?’

  ‘None of your concern.’

  ‘The kidnap was staged on Hexter’s orders. Correct?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you anything about Joe, Nicole. You should be thinking about your welfare, not his.’

  ‘But he’s been reported missing to the police. So, officially, your lot have lost him. But they haven’t really, have they? So, what’s Hexter up to? And what deal have you done with Venstrom? I know you wined and dined Billy Swarther at Hexter’s house in the Cotswolds on Thursday evening. What did you shake hands on at the end of that?’

  ‘You’re rapidly talking yourself out of all that slack I was intending to cut you, Nicole. My adv
ice, my sincere advice, is that you should give me the tape and walk out of here. That really is the best I can do for you.’

  ‘And Forrester?’

  ‘Forget Forrester. Forget Joe. Forget everything.’

  There’s a thickset shaven-headed guy standing beside Roger, taking delivery of three pints of lager. It’s a desperate move, but I reckon I’m only going to get out of this if I can involve other people. I launch myself at Roger as forcefully as I can, shoving the bag containing the radio cassette player into his stomach.

  The impact’s enough to knock him off balance. He cannons into the lager guy. Most of the contents of the pints slop on to the floor. One of the glasses slips from his grasp and smashes. ‘Fucking hell,’ he says. He sounds angry. He sounds drunk as well. Which all sounds good to me.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Roger, turning round to appease him. ‘Didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Didn’t see me? It’s a fucking pub, mate.’

  ‘Sorry again. Let me buy you some refills.’

  ‘He does this kind of thing all the time,’ I cut in. ‘He brings me in places like this ’cos he says it’s fun to slum it. Spilling drinks is all part of the show. I don’t know why I put up with it. You should hear what he’s been saying about you and your friends.’

  The lager guy glares at Roger. ‘What ’ave you bin sayin’?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘He calls you Neanderthals,’ I say.

  ‘That right?’ He prods Roger in the chest.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Roger protests.

  ‘Ridiculous.’ The word’s pronounced to mock Roger’s accent. ‘Fucking ponce.’

  ‘I’d watch out if I were you,’ I say. ‘He carries a stun gun to get himself out of confrontations. He used it on me once.’

  ‘You some kind of nutter, mate?’ he demands of Roger.

  ‘Ignore her,’ says Roger. ‘She’s off her head. I’m happy to buy you replacement drinks. That’s all I can—’

  The hint of dismissiveness in his tone drives my new friend over the edge. He takes a swing at Roger, forgetting, I suppose, that there’s a half-empty glass in his hand.

  Roger’s not expecting a fist wrapped round a glass to hit him somewhere round the left eye. But that’s what happens. There’s a crunching thud and a spray of blood.