Birth of a Spy

by Duncan Swindells

  ‘Excuse me. Excuse me!’ Hunter strode confidently through the metal arches, a copy of Philip Rutherland’s drearily earnest Enigma clutched academically across his chest. As the alarms blared he continued up the long thin corridor and away from the university's library until he felt a firm hand fall on his shoulder. He span round quickly and took in the pinched face of the man who stood before him. A little shorter than himself at about five foot ten and probably, Hunter guessed, about ten years older. He was almost certainly a failed graduate who had dropped out of academia and been found a cosy little job working in the library. That, Hunter surmised would have been about seven or eight years ago. Those intervening years had not been kind on the man. He was mouthing something and glowering at Hunter’s book.

  Hunter very slowly and quite deliberately removed his head phones.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘You haven’t signed for that book. You must sign for your book.’ He held out his hand and Hunter made a grovelling apology. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ the man was saying ‘If you’ll let me have your card, please?’

  Hunter knew this was probably where his hastily thrown together plan would fall to pieces. He made great play of padding down his jacket and trousers in search of the elusive card, as the man opposite him looked on, his patience obviously stretched. ‘It’s here somewhere I’m sure it is.’ He smiled what he hoped would be a winning smile and prepared for his next deceit. As he took his wallet from his jacket, in an act of nervousness it slipped from his hands. The library’s guardian retrieved it for him. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Hunter stammered, opening it up and examining its leather compartments. ‘It’s just that I have a feeling,’ his fingers were on the plastic rectangle now, ‘that this may have expired.’ He withdrew the obsolete card, turned it in his hand and smiled ruefully back at the librarian before bowing his head in an admission of his guilt.

  ‘I will take this,’ the librarian held up his copy of Enigma ‘and this,’ he snatched the card from Hunter’s hand. ‘You can be certain I shall be writing to your faculty head.’ He was about to return to his precious wards, but then remembering, faltered, and angrily shaking the card at Hunter to emphasis his case continued, ‘The bag. What’s in the bag? Let me see.’

  Hunter was blown. There was no point in denying it. He let the shoulder bag slip to the floor, where he knelt in an act of specious supplication and undid its clasps. He drew back the flap to reveal Andrew Stevenson’s A History of Cryptanalysis in the Second World War lying on top of that day’s copy of the Cambridge Times.

  ‘Oldest trick in the book. Fucking students.’ Hunter handed it to him.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You can now expect a strongly worded letter, and, as far as I’m concerned, you’re barred.’ Clutching the two recovered articles he sanctimoniously strode back to the library. ‘Fucking students.’

  Hunter, shamefaced and defeated resolved to take the first bus home.

  ✽✽✽

  On the top deck of the 11A, Hunter opened his precious messenger bag, removed the folded newspaper, smiling at its weight, and watched as George Wiseman’s book slid out.

  Once home he quickly skimmed Philip Rutherland’s book, taking notes as he went. His laptop continued to process the many millions of permutations as he made minute adjustments based on his findings. Then Amy appeared with a fresh pot of tea. She tried to lure him away with a DVD of Jean de Florette but Hunter told her to start without him. He was almost finished and would come down soon and pick it up from where ever she had got to. She hated him when he said things like that.

  Once he’d finished with the Rutherland book he turned his attention to George Wiseman’s. He had already dipped into it on the bus home. The writing style reflected the photograph of the author on the back cover. It was light, witty, irreverent, sometimes contentious and often extremely funny. Hunter couldn’t put it down. Amy, having watched Jean de Florette alone, decided she would go to bed. She stood in front of Hunter and slipped provocatively out of her work clothes and into a night shirt.

  ‘Come to bed?’

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ he’d said absently, hardly looking up.

  When midnight came he was still reading Wiseman’s book. He’d carefully arranged an angle poise so as not to disturb the sleeping Amy. At a half past one he called it a night and slid into bed next to her. She hardly stirred.

  ✽✽✽

  The Winstanley Lecture Theatre is part of Trinity College’s Blue Boar Court, seating a hundred and fifty students. Hunter arrived at half past twelve, just in time to hear the general hubbub of a lecture finishing. The sound of a hall full of students packing away, discussing the talk or making social arrangements for the evening threw him back twelve months and he felt a sudden pang of nostalgia. The doors crashed open and a stream of undergraduates began to pour out. They looked so young, Hunter thought, so full of hope and ambition. He’d been like that once. He waited for the hall to clear. At the front, on the stage tidying away his notes, Alec Bell, smartly casual in a pair of chinos and an open necked shirt, his long perfectly maintained fair hair glowing warmly under the theatre’s lights. If Hunter hadn’t known him quite so well he could easily have mistaken him for one of his own students. He raised a hand in greeting and started down the theatre’s raked steps. Alec stuck out his hand and then pulled Hunter into a bear hug, slapping him affectionately on the back.

  ‘Come to ask me for a job?’

  Alec had done what he always did, he’d jumped in and said the unsayable. Taken the elephant in the room and put him centre stage with a band and an MC and all in a manner that had defused the situation rather than enflaming it.

  ‘You bastard. Who told you?’

  ‘Sinclair mentioned something the other day.’

  Hunter nodded. It was hard to be angry with either of them, after all, they were only looking out for him.

  Alec finished packing away his notes and they walked up the stairs and out of the theatre together.

  ‘I’ll be honest, I’m not sure I can do it, work for you I mean.’

  ‘If things were different I’d feel the same.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘There’s no way on God’s earth I’d work for you, Scott. You’re far too…’

  ‘Far too what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  They walked the rest of the way to the exit in silence.

  ‘In any case, you don’t really fit my profile.’ Alec finally said holding a door open.

  ‘I’m sorry, and what do you mean by that? Don’t fit your profile, what bloody profile?’

  As they reached the front steps Alec was struggling not to laugh.

  ‘Don’t patronize me, Alec,’ Hunter continued, ‘In what way do I not fit your profile?’ His temper was rising. How dare he. Alec might have the position, the car and the playboy lifestyle, but they both knew that intellectually there wasn’t a hair between them, it was simply that Hunter had chosen not to flagrantly promote himself or court publicity. ‘I’d like to know exactly what it is someone else can offer you that I can’t?’

  ‘Well, I can think of a couple of things straight off.’

  Hunter was better qualified for this job than anyone. What the hell was he suggesting? Perhaps he hadn’t had the obvious success that Alec had, but he didn’t like the implication that he wasn’t up to being his bloody assistant. He was every bit the mathematician Alec was.

  ‘Shall I tell you what I’m really looking for in a job applicant?’ Alec teased.

  ‘I wish you would.’

  ‘What I’m really looking for is someone who’s about five foot six, long legs, platinum blonde hair down to about here,’ Alec drew a line just above his waist, ‘possibly with a twin sister and most crucially of all a great big pair of...’

  ‘Got it. Got it, thank you for that vivid picture. I take it that will all be appearing in the paper when you finally get around to advertising?’ Hunter
was laughing now too. Alec the wind-up merchant. Alec the joker, always playing for laughs. Hunter chided himself. He ought to have known. This was simply the way their relationship had always been. Alec would wind him up to just such a point and then there would be the pay off, the punchline and invariably Hunter had to concede, with Alec placing himself firmly at the butt of his own joke. ‘I can’t wait to meet her… and her sister.’ Now the joking was out of the way, Alec showed his other side. The side few people, girlfriends, adoring students, or journalists, ever saw.

  ‘You’re sure you’re not up for it? Could be fun?’

  ‘No,’ Hunter said firmly, ‘particularly not now. I don’t want to have to take you to court for sexual harassment for one thing.’

  ‘There is always that, although I’m not sure you’re my type,’ Alec laughed. ‘Question is, what are you going to do? You can’t spend the rest of your life buggering around with sixty-year-old bits of German.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘There’s no money in it for one.’

  ‘I am painfully aware of that.’

  ‘Ah,’ Alec smiled. ‘The gorgeous Amy on your case? How is she?’

  ‘She’s fine and yes she is on my case, a bit. The problem is she’s paying the rent, the council tax and all the other damn bills and all I’m bringing in is what I get from the government.’

  ‘Bloody scrounger.’

  ‘I knew you’d understand.’

  ‘So, if I can’t interest you in some research work, what are you going to do? Do you want me to keep an ear to the ground?’

  ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘Course not. Come on I’ll buy you lunch.’

  Hunter shook his head. He wasn’t going to a charity case and this time Alec knew not to push him.

  ‘How about a pint then? The Champion?’

  They walked along King Street to The Champion of the Thames Pub. It had been a regular drinking haunt when they had first met at college. Alec had been on the verge of a rowing blue, whiling away many happy hours trying unsuccessfully to ingratiate his way into the boat. They ordered a couple a pints and found a table in a secluded corner.

  ‘What are you up to then?’ Alec inquired.

  ‘Well, I am still buggering around trying to break sixty year-old-codes, as you so eloquently put it. Although just at the moment I’ve got a real sod of a one.’ Hunter put his drink down and stared long and hard at the white frothing residue left by the beer. ‘I half wondered if you’d had something to do with it?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘One of your childish attempts at humour.’

  Alec snorted derisively. ‘Sorry to disappoint, although it does sound like it’s got you all riled up, but I’m afraid, this time, it’s got nothing to do with me.’

  So that cleared that up.

  ‘I’ve widened the parameters as much as I can, but so far...’

  Alec looked up at mention of the program. Privately he would have conceded that he’d been more than a little jealous of Hunter’s success. For once it had seemed his friend might steal the limelight from him. Almost more annoyingly, Hunter had shunned any publicity. To Alec it had all looked like such a wasted opportunity.

  ‘You must let me have a copy of that one of these days, I’m intrigued to see how you’ve put it together.’ By way of an answer Hunter took a long drink. ‘It could have the makings of quite an interesting paper,’ Alec continued.

  Hunter had made a promise to himself never to let anyone see the algorithm. Christ, Alec had enough didn’t he? The girls, the money, the academic adulation. He was smart enough, if he really wanted to, to write his own bloody algorithm instead of gallivanting off around the globe appearing on late night phone ins and screwing chamber maids. Hunter shook his head.

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘I see. First you turn down a job, then you turn down lunch and now you won’t even let your oldest friend misappropriate your life’s work. Charming. What’s the big problem anyway?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m not getting anywhere with it. Normally you’d expect a certain degree of background, dates, times, places, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And you didn’t get any of those this time?’

  ‘No, not a one.’

  ‘That’s a bit odd isn’t it?’

  ‘Sinclair’s treating the whole thing like it’s some sort of vindication that history works better than science. You can imagine the sort of thing?’ Alec nodded ‘You’re much better off with a dusty old reference book and a slide rule. I don’t hold with all this new-fangled electricity lark. Low-down. Bad juju.’ Alec laughed at Hunter’s impersonation. ‘Mind you, he did put me onto this, in a roundabout sort of way.’ Hunter fished about in his messenger bag and produced George Wiseman’s book. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve read it?’

  Alec gave him a look which said, in no uncertain terms, that of course he had not read it, at no stage in the future did he intend to read it, and not to be so bloody silly.

  ‘You should, I think you’d enjoy it.’

  ‘It’s really not my kind of thing, Scott. I love the maths, but all that pseudo detective work and the Cold War spy crap,’ he said pointing to the photograph of the book’s author, ‘It just doesn’t do it for me. I mean, really, who does this guy think he is, Liberace?’

  ‘Actually, I think he may hold the key.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, I rang his publishers first thing this morning to see if they would put me in touch with him, but they weren’t playing ball. Apparently, they don’t just hand out addresses to any old Tom, Dick or Harry.’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  Alec took the book from Hunter and went to the bar to order two more pints. When he returned it was wedged precariously under his chin. He handed Hunter his drink.

  ‘If I can get this old goat’s phone number for you will you let me have a look at the algorithm?’

  Hunter took a sip of his second pint. It was a calculated risk, but the odds were stacked in his favour. Alec would never get the number. He’d already tried and failed and there was no reason to believe his friend would fare any better. After two more pints he agreed.

  Alec took an iPhone from his pocket and placed Hunter’s book on the table in front of him. He opened the Safari app and went online. Seconds later he had the phone number of the book’s publishers and the phone was asking him if he would like to make a call. He brushed his thumb across the screen, put the mobile to his ear and shot Hunter a confident smile.

  ‘Oh hello,’ he began, ‘who am I speaking with? Marta? Jak się masz Marta, nazywam sie Alec. Where are you from? No I’m afraid I don’t know Poznan. I was in Warsaw last year though. Beautiful city.’ Alec screwed up his face at the lie. ‘Listen I’m George’s editor. George Wiseman, daft old coot, wears a bow tie, partial to a cigar.’

  Hunter shook his head.

  ‘You don’t know him? No? No reason why you should, I suppose. Anyway, listen I’m having lunch with a client and I really need to get his number but I’ve left my sodding contacts book in my other jacket. Would you mind?’ Hunter looked at his friend in disbelief as they waited for the temp on the other end of the line. ‘That is so kind of you Marta, would you just give me a second while I find a pen.’ Hunter was horrified. He could see his beloved algorithm slipping from his grasp before his very eyes. Alec was gesturing frantically at him and so reluctantly he dug into the bottom of the shoulder bag and produced an old biro. ‘Right, fire away,’ Alec said, rubbing it in as he scribbled down the figures. ‘Thank you so very much Marta, Do widzenia.’

  And there, on the bar-mat in front of Hunter was George Wiseman’s London telephone number.

  ‘Since when do you speak Polish? You’ve never been to Poland in your life.’

  ‘Since I started teaching a naughty little undergrad called Jolanta,’ Alec said with a knowing grin. ‘Algorithm please?’

  ✽✽✽

  Hunter waited until he was home to phone the number Alec had obtained for h
im. He settled himself at his desk, a notepad by his elbow and rehearsed what he might say. For his call to go unanswered once or twice Hunter could accept, but after the fifth or sixth attempt he was grudgingly starting to admit that either the number the Polish girl had given them was incorrect, possibly intentionally, or Mr George Wiseman simply did not wish to be contacted. He filled a page of his notepad with doodles. This would be the last time he would try before exploring other avenues, although at present he had no idea what those other avenues might be. He pressed the handset’s redial button.

  ‘Hullo.’

  ‘Hello, I was wondering if I might speak to a Mr Wiseman?’

  The man on the other end of the line took his time. Hunter heard him struggle to clear his throat.

  ‘Who is this?’ he asked, his once sonorous baritone now heavy with the suspicion of old age. ‘Who is this? Did I ask you to call?’ Suspicion now replaced by anxiety. ‘Is this a cold call? Who is this?’

  ‘Am I speaking to Mr Wiseman? Mr George Wiseman, the author?’ Another lengthy silence, a silence in which Hunter knew that the man on the other end of the line was indeed George Wiseman and that he now had his full attention, the trick would be to keep him on the line.