Birth of a Spy

by Duncan Swindells

  ‘Mr Hunter has what we used to call, an over active imagination,’ he said, dabbing at the crease, ‘I am an author and occasional script doctor, who in an earlier life did his bit for King and Country, as I should say, did everyone at that time. As a writer I developed something of a reputation, I suppose, but these days I’m seldom read and never quoted.’ Watching the ball gently trickle over the boundary rope for four he took Amy’s arm and lead her towards the empty fireplace and away from the piano. ‘Now, you see’ he continued, gesturing at the mantle piece, ‘I have other distractions.’

  ‘Your grandchildren?’

  Wiseman smiled weakly before coughing noisily into his handkerchief.

  ‘I don’t see them as often as I’d like it’s true. They all seem to live such a long way away and their parents, well let’s just say they aren’t so keen on London.’

  He took her glass and freshened both their drinks. Amy could see the next question coming a long time before George actually asked it.

  ‘Have you any plans, to start a family I mean?’

  ‘We’ve only just left college, George.’

  ‘Forgive me that was extremely rude and certainly none of my business.’

  Amy waved him off. She was flattered he’d felt able to ask and was starting to understand why George appeared in the company of quite so many beautiful women.

  ‘I think I’d like to have a career first, but yes, maybe, one day.’

  ‘I understand. Tell me a little about Scott.’

  No one had ever asked her so directly before. It threw her a little.

  ‘He’s funny and frustrating and brilliant and lazy.’ George smiled, ‘God, did I just say all that? He is lazy though at some things, but others he takes so seriously, like this bloody Enigma thing,’ she finished crossly. ‘And now Joth’s dead and I just don’t know what to think. Scott’s certain whoever did it was after him.’

  ‘Is he? And has he spoken to his parents, since...’

  She shook her head, ‘He doesn’t speak to his father.’

  ‘Might I ask why that is?’

  ‘And he won’t talk to me about it either.’

  ‘That is a shame. I’m afraid my dear that a son’s relationship with his father can be every bit as complex as a daughter’s, more so, in my experience. At the end of the day all any father really wants is for his son to have a happier life than he has. We may not always achieve this but it is what we all want. I’m certain Scott’s father is no different than any other in that respect.’

  Before Amy was able to press him any further Hunter returned with a handful of plates and found a space for them by the window.

  ‘I’ve used up the end of a cucumber I found in your fridge, I hope you don’t mind?’

  He drew back the curtains, looking up Lansdowne Terrace, drinking in the last of the day’s sun.

  ‘Would you mind not doing that?’ Wiseman was at his side now, taking the curtain from him and pulling it back into place. ‘I don’t wish to appear over sensitive, but I do value my privacy. Thank you for taking care of things in the kitchen. Now, once you’ve finished your sandwiches of course, I expect you’ll be wanting to get on your way. The evening is upon us and I should imagine the trains don’t run forever, do they?’

  Amy looked at him incredulously. The amiable old gentleman who had been chatting so easily with her about her plans for the future had vanished. This man was hard, unforgiving and unwelcoming, no longer the charming womanizer who had enquired so kindly of her ambitions to start a family.

  ‘But George,’ she began, ‘I thought you understood. We have nowhere to go?’

  ‘What about your parents?’

  ‘They’re in Casciano. Tuscany.’

  ‘In which case their house here will be vacant, will it not?’ Wiseman pressed.

  ‘Let out for the summer.’

  ‘Mr Hunter, do you not have any family you could call upon?’

  ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘Then where were you planning on staying, if I may ask?’

  ‘Right here. I think it’s the least you can do, don’t you?’ Hunter replied without thinking.

  Wiseman shuffled awkwardly for a moment and Hunter wondered if the old boy had heard him properly.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure I appreciate your tone and in any case I’m afraid I do not have a guest bedroom to offer you.’

  ‘We can sleep on the sofa, or Amy can at least.’

  ‘That is completely out of the question. You will have to get a room in a hotel for the night. You will see there are plenty down towards Gloucester Road.’

  Hunter looked at Wiseman and forced himself to remember that this was a frail old man.

  ‘Do you have any idea of the price of a room round here, even for only one night? This is bloody Kensington in case you’d forgotten.’ Hunter threw back the remainder of his scotch and reached for the decanter. ‘All we’re asking for is a corner of blanket and at a stretch a pillow. Once we’ve had a chance to think I promise we’ll be out of your way first thing in the morning. I don’t want to spend any more time here than is absolutely necessary, believe me.’

  They sat in silence and ate Hunter’s sandwiches and then Wiseman disappeared only to return with an armful of bedding.

  ‘For you my dear,’ he said, handing it to Amy. She made herself comfortable on the sofa whilst the two men sat quietly and drank. As she slowly drifted off to sleep Wiseman turned to his young pup.

  ‘It’s a solitary profession you know?’

  Hunter thought he did know, but he wasn’t quite ready to play along.

  ‘Writing?’

  ‘No, Scott. Not writing.’

  Hunter nodded grimly, his suspicions at least partially confirmed. The two men watched over Amy as she slipped further into sleep. The whisky was nearly at an end. George took up the decanter and left, Hunter presumed to refill it. He slipped off his shoes, arranged his and Amy’s coats next to the sofa and curled up like a guard dog. He was not quite asleep when George Wiseman returned. The elderly gentleman went to the window and briefly drew back the curtain. The decanter replenished and satisfied by what he had seen, Wiseman poured himself one last scotch before picking up the telephone.

  ‘I have them both,’ were the last words Hunter heard as he fell asleep.

  6

  God he was anxious. He thought he’d feel a little apprehensive today and that that would be quite natural, but he hadn’t expected to feel anything like this. Chris Wilson was a bag of nerves. He hadn’t slept all night, tossing and turning until his wife had pleaded with him to go and sleep in the other room. The lack of a good night’s rest was nothing new, two kids had seen to that. The last time either he or Trish had had a proper night’s sleep was when her parents had come up to London for the weekend so they could spend a night away in a hotel in Brighton. Now Ben and Sophie were fussing around him as he tried to make breakfast.

  ‘Daddy, are you really going to be on the tele?’

  Christ, that had never even crossed his mind.

  ‘I don’t know poppet. Will you be good for mummy while you wait for me?’ But Sophie’s attention had already moved on to something new.

  He doled out a serving of porridge and cut up a banana to go on top, then a spoonful of honey. Trish was in their tiny South London galley kitchen shooing the kids away.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Sick.’

  Before they’d decided to have a family Chris had had a taste for the high life. He’d get on a plane at the drop of a hat and whisk Trish off for long, romantic weekends. They ate out more often than they cooked and Chris had a garage full of golf clubs, fishing rods and expensive road bikes. But since the children he’d had to look for simpler pursuits, a hobby which didn’t require a great deal of equipment or preparation and preferably one he could do in his lunch break at work. Running had been Trish’s idea, insisting the fresh air and exercise would do him and his waistline good. He didn’t have the natu
ral physique for it, but the exertion fired him up and so now he couldn’t imagine a day going by when he didn’t get out for at least half an hour.

  Today though was a little different, today was Chris Wilson’s first competitive event and whilst it was only a fun run he was already starting to buckle under the burden of expectation.

  ✽✽✽

  ‘Black and two, just how you like it,’ Michael Healy said passing the insulated cup through the open window, ‘They’re fresh out of croissants.’

  ‘Already?’ Bennett shot Healy a look.

  ‘Already.’

  ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell, Mike. One thing.’

  He let it go, again.

  ‘Got you a Danish instead.’

  A small peace offering never went amiss, especially as Healy had a feeling that he and Bennett were going to be spending a lot of time together today. The assignment they’d pulled had developed quite a reputation through the service, viewed by the career minded and energetic as a punishment and by the older, slower operatives as a chance to catch up on some much needed rest. The most excitement it had ever produced had been the previous week when Bennett and Healy had unexpectedly been told to take the day off. That had been well received. They’d gone for lunch and a couple of pints together in The Goat on Kensington High Street before heading home early.

  As Healy opened the passenger door to get in he glanced up the tiny row of townhouses to the Merc. parked less than a hundred yards away. It did him good to feel there were a couple of guys, in a car very much like their own just a few yards up the road, having an equally shitty time. Healy straightened his jacket, hitched up his trousers and sat down.

  The problem with this job, Healy thought as he stared past his own reflection, was that most of the time you were either scared shit-less or bored shit-less and just now, listening to Bob Bennett slurping his coffee and droning on about nothing in particular, it was definitely the latter. Bennett and Healy had worked together on and off for ten years. They’d first paired up in 2001 when the war on terror had been declared. Initially the two men had got along rather well. Operations had been, by and large, successful, and when not working together they bought each other pastries and coffee in the mornings and pints of real ale at the Vauxhall Tavern near the river in the evenings. Then, quite suddenly their relationship had soured, but when asked by their respective partners neither could say exactly why. There had been no one particular incident. Perhaps they had simply spent too much time in each other’s company? Perhaps it was Bennett’s insistence on calling Michael, Mike, in that over familiar knock about way which Michael had always detested but never bothered to correct? Perhaps it was the age difference? Bennett, at fifty, and ten years Healy’s senior was already starting to contemplate retirement. Either way they had endured a bad couple of years. They’d hardly spoken except when called upon to, tolerating each other but little more. Then Healy had settled down and started a family and tensions had eased considerably. Bennett’s wife had sent him to work with freshly knitted booties and a bonnet for their first born and the resultant embarrassing exchanging of such feminine gifts had done much to re-build broken bridges.

  ✽✽✽

  Hunter’s head was pounding. There was a chink in the curtains and a shaft of early morning light was catching him. He screwed up his eyes against the sun and shifted his head. He’d had an extraordinarily uncomfortable night even by his standards, but thanks to the whisky had achieved a sleep of sorts. Perhaps if he could just get the light from his eyes he might manage a little more. He twisted awkwardly on his makeshift bed. Then he heard a click. A very quiet click. It took some time for the sound to register. The sound of a front door closing. He half went back to sleep and was barely aware of the building’s main door opening and shutting. The light caught him again and finally he gave up and knelt on the floor next to the sofa.

  Amy had gone.

  Fighting back the nausea and the splitting headache Hunter looked for his shoes. He sat unsteadily on the edge of the Chesterfield and struggled to put on his desert boots. Where the hell was she off to?

  There was a polite tap at the living room door and George Wiseman shuffled in. It was early but he was washed, shaved and dressed.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘She’s gone.’

  Wiseman stared back at him blankly.

  ‘Amy. She’s gone.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now, I think. I’m not sure, I was asleep.’

  Wiseman was at the window atypically throwing back the curtains.

  ‘Well, there’s no sign of her outside. We need to find her and quickly.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Stay calm, Scott. I think there may be help at hand.’

  ‘Help?’ Hunter couldn’t imagine what the old boy was talking about.

  ‘There are two gentlemen outside who may well be able to assist us.’

  ‘Outside?’

  ‘Yes, in a black car,’ George craned forward to get a better look. ‘They appear to be taking their breakfast.’

  ‘The Audi, PVG34HG?’ Hunter asked, still struggling with a disobedient shoelace.

  ‘How could you possibly know that?’

  Hunter shrugged. ‘Shanghai International and the chemical symbol for mercury. The numbers come more easily.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Sure,’ Hunter said rubbing his forehead and barely looking up. ‘The other car, is that still there, the Merc, 248X465?’

  ‘Yes, yes it is,’ Wiseman replied, squinting to read the plate.

  ‘That one was easy. One hundred and fifteen thousand three hundred and twenty.’

  ‘I’m sorry young man, I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘The number of positive commandments in The Torah multiplied by Mozart’s Dissonance Quartet. One hundred and fifteen thousand three hundred and twenty.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Wiseman said, noting with a degree of satisfaction that Hunter was still unable to tie his shoelace.

  ‘But I still don’t see how they’re going to be able to help us?’

  ‘Because Scott, the men sitting in that car work for the British Secret Service. And those,’ he gestured dismissively towards the blacked out Mercedes, ‘unless I am very much mistaken, the Russian. They, or people very much like them have been parked outside this flat for the last twenty years. The Americans never seemed too bothered.’

  ‘So you are a spy?’

  Wiseman’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Such an ugly little word,’ he said.

  ‘It’s an ugly little profession, isn’t it?’

  ‘Shall we go and see if these fine upstanding young gentlemen who have sat so patiently for so long have anything to say about Amy’s whereabouts? I think that, after twenty years it’s about time I at least said hullo, don’t you?’

  Wiseman hesitated by the front door.

  ‘You may find this of some use,’ he said handing Hunter the cricket bat he’d first seen next to Wiseman’s umbrella stand. ‘Come along.’

  Showing surprising agility for a man of his age, Wiseman bounded down the steps of his flat and stood next to the open window of the Audi A4, jabbing a tobacco stained finger across its bonnet for Hunter to do the same and stand by the opposite window.

  Bob Bennett looked up, ‘What the fuck do you think you’re up to?’ he spluttered, his mouth full of pastry.

  ‘An extremely attractive young lady left this flat no more than a few minutes ago. You will have seen her. She is not the sort of young lady one forgets, if you follow me? All I should like to know is, where did she go?’

  Bennett starred back with well-trained indifference. As a younger man he’d pounded the streets, so now he was quite happy for Lost Persons to be someone else’s problem. Normally he’d have at least passed the time of day with the confused old pensioner, but the man standing next to him wasn’t just any pensioner, he was the target, and early retirement or no, Bob Bennett knew the rules
on interaction with the target even if they did initiate contact. Theirs was a watching brief. Keep stum. Don’t get involved. ‘No idea what you’re talking about mate. Haven’t seen anyone,’ he lied, hoping he’d drawn a line under the matter, and returned to his Danish.

  ‘I see.’ Wiseman paused. ‘May I just say how much I admire your necktie?’

  What was he on about now? Bennett looked at the strip of burgundy silk snaking down his chest. It had been a birthday present from his wife, or had it been Christmas? he never could remember. He suspected she’d hurriedly picked it out for him in a department store. The only thing Bennett thought you could honestly say of the tie was that it was wholly unremarkable.

  ‘A Windsor knot, or do you favour the Grantchester?’ Wiseman continued.

  ‘Fucked if I know.’ Surely even Alperton couldn’t consider that social discourse.

  ‘Shame. You really ought to find out. Although it does seem you may be more of a Pratt man.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  Wiseman lent forward, pushing his head through the open window.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Bennett balled at him.

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re going to have to speak up a little,’ Wiseman said, touching his hearing aid, ‘I’m a trifle deaf, you see?’

  Bennett turned to Healey for help but Michael Healey was enjoying his partner’s discomfort far too much to get involved. Wiseman reached into the car and took Bennett’s tie in his hand, lifting it from his shirt to examine the knot. Before Bob Bennett could prevent him, and with his free hand, he pulled the tie through the steering wheel and out of the driver’s window. Bennett’s face was thrown violently forward and he cried out as scalding hot coffee splashed over his legs. Hunter glanced across the bonnet of the Audi, the purpose of the cricket bat now evident. Healy, the younger of the two men had started to open the passenger side door, now intent on aiding his colleague.

  ‘Scott!’ Wiseman barked at him.

  Hunter struck the door with all the force he could muster. A satisfying dent appeared in the panel just below the handle and Healy swiftly retreated. Hunter repositioned himself and tried to stop shaking. Now Healy turned his attention to Bennett, trying to ease the choke that Wiseman was exerting, but the larger man’s frame prevented him.