Birth of a Spy

by Duncan Swindells

  Wiseman bent his head level with the struggling driver’s.

  ‘Now listen to me you shit. I know exactly who you are and I know exactly who you work for.’ Time to take the new ball, George. ‘As a matter of fact, I know your boss rather well, as I’m sure you are only too aware. I do not want to have to relate the sorry tale of our meeting when he next offers me a disappointingly cheap glass of brandy at his club.’ Wiseman braced his knee against the car and drew the tie tighter, grinding Bennett’s face painfully against the steering wheel. ‘So, I am going to ask you one last time before I break your jaw.’

  ‘George!’ Hunter was shouting at him from across the car.

  ‘A young lady left my flat some minutes ago. She has long dark hair and is a little taller than me.’

  ‘George!’

  ‘All I want to know is, in which direction did she go? It really is terribly simple.’

  ‘George, for Christ’s sake.’

  Wiseman looked up, never loosening his grip on Bennett’s tie. At the corner of the street, just by the café, stood Amy, a newspaper in one hand, a takeaway coffee in the other.

  ‘She’s there George. For Christ’s sake let him go.’

  Seeing them, Amy raised the paper and waved. George let his grip relax and Bennett snapped his head back.

  ‘You crazy old bastard,’ he shouted ‘Alperton’ll hear about this.’ He tugged at the knot, unable to loosen it. The electric window went up and before Wiseman could move from the road the Audi roared to life and screeched off at speed.

  ‘Bloody Hell, George, what were you thinking?’

  The attack had taken its toll on the old man and Hunter put an arm around Wiseman’s shoulder as they watched Amy walk towards them. He started to laugh, shaking with the relief and then Wiseman was laughing too.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for a hell of a long time,’ the old man smirked.

  ‘I’m going to ask you once more before I break your jaw?’ Hunter replied, doing his best to ape Wiseman’s cut glass accent.

  ‘Don’t forget young man, I’ve worked in Hollywood.’

  They watched Amy approach a junction. She was nearly with them. She stepped off the kerb to avoid a bollard on the pavement and a badly parked car, but before either of them could react the car’s door swung open and the hulking figure Hunter had last seen leaving his house on Danforth Road emerged. One huge arm grabbed Amy around her slender waist whilst the other jabbed something into the side of her neck. She went limp almost immediately, never given a chance to struggle. With barely any effort the giant threw her into the back of the car. A moment later and he was in the driver’s seat, gunning the engine.

  Hunter raced up the road, but it was all over by the time he reached the junction and the freshly painted bollard. He caught sight of the car one final time as it turned by the café and was lost in London’s traffic. Hunter had the same desperate feeling he’d experienced twenty-four hours earlier upon discovering Joth’s lifeless body. His ears began to hum with the sound of his own blood, his body limp and useless, a deep cold spreading to the very tips of his fingers, whilst a clammy sweat coated his brow. He turned and without knowing where he was going, walked back towards 24 Lansdowne Terrace.

  ‘Scott.’ A voice though near, sounding from afar. It was Wiseman, ‘Scott, I’m sorry. We really must go inside.’

  ‘I’ve got to find her,’ Hunter mumbled.

  ‘Of course we do, but in my experience we will need to be inside and near a telephone. Now come along.’

  ✽✽✽

  They stood either side of George’s antiquated telephone like a pair of expectant fathers. Hunter hadn’t given his mobile a thought for the previous twenty-four hours but now was inspecting it with a degree of horror. Twelve missed calls. It had remained on silent since he’d crept past Joth’s body. There were voicemails from the university, a text from Alec checking he was okay and most chillingly a message from the police asking him to contact them with the utmost urgency. He switched the iPhone’s ringer back on. The battery life was down to an unhealthy thirty percent.

  Moments later it was this phone which rang and not Wiseman’s. He placed it on the table by the old man’s typewriter and turned on the speaker. An ugly electronic voice filled the room.

  ‘Now we both have something which belongs to the other. Bring the list to the statue of Peter Pan in Hyde Park at twelve o’clock. He knows the place. Bring the list and the girl goes unharmed.’

  George nodded, but before Hunter could reply, confirm that he understood the arrangements or ask if Amy was all right, the line went dead.

  He slumped into Wiseman’s armchair. The magnitude of what had happened only now hitting him. Who was this person who seemed so intent of hurting everyone close to him and why were they doing it? What was the nature of the list? He turned on George Wiseman.

  ‘We’re going to need some sort of plan, but first, you’re going to tell me about the names on that list.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can’t or you won’t?’ Hunter rubbed his hands across his face. He was desperately tired and in need of a shave. ‘You know the people on that list. You’ve always known. And if I’m to help Amy I need to know too. So?’

  ‘That’s not how it works, Scott.’ Time for some good honest line and length, George. ‘First we were never told. We were given the information to encode, that was all. Only one person ever knew the whole story and I’m afraid I’m not that person. So, whilst I may recognise those names, they are nothing more than that to me. Names.’ A touch of wristy spin at the end perhaps, but on the whole largely wicket to wicket stuff.

  ‘And secondly,’

  ‘We aren’t going to be at the Peter Pan Monument at twelve o’clock.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re not going to give him the list. I’m sorry Scott, I can’t let you.’

  ‘That’s not your decision to make. I’m getting Amy back. You can tag along if you like.’

  ‘Scott, this man is a killer. He won’t hesitate to use violence. If we do as he asks there is no reason for me to believe that he will not try to kill all three of us. We cannot go.’

  Hunter tapped the shoulder bag cradled on his knee.

  ‘That’s not for you to say. I’m going. I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘I admire your sense of chivalry Scott, but listen to yourself. This isn’t your world.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it is yours, isn’t it?’ The old man choose not to hear him. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re an academic. A good one I’m sure, but you’re not a...’

  ‘A spy? Like you?’

  ‘If you want to take this man on you had better use the skills you possess. You’ll never beat him in a street fight. Don’t forget he’s armed.’

  ‘What would you do then?’

  Now’s the time to dig in, George. Play the long game, think of the second innings and try not to lose a wicket cheaply before tea.

  ‘First you must send the list to someone you trust. I mean really trust.’

  ‘Professor Sinclair?’

  ‘The founder of your little “club”? Too obvious, he’d be the first place I’d look.’

  ‘Lazarus.’

  ‘The diseased beggar? Lazarus? Who the hell is Lazarus?’

  ‘He’s part of our…’ Hunter was reluctant to use the word again. ‘He breaks Enigma codes. He’s a friend, although I’ve only ever met him online. I couldn’t tell you where he lives.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But surely he’d be ideal?’

  ‘No. Not a ghost. Someone you know and trust.’

  ‘Alec then. He’s my oldest friend. He knows codes better than I do and he’d do anything for Amy.’

  ‘And you really trust him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alec it is then.’

  ‘I’ll email it all to him, but leave it in the original code. He should have my copy of the algorithm by now. He’s not stupid, he’ll work it
out.’

  ‘There is one small problem. As you can see,’ George gestured towards his aged Olivetti, ‘I have yet to embrace email or the horrors of the World Wide Web.’

  Hunter smiled. ‘Leave that to me.’

  He opened up the MacBook and let it search for wireless routers. The many adjacent houses and flats threw up an impressive array of machines but they were all password protected. It was the work of seconds for Hunter to fire up a short programme which began capturing packets from each of the strongest WEP addresses. Another programme cracked the packets and provided the users passwords and details. He was in.

  ‘I’m impressed Mr. Hunter.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be. It’s pretty straight forward stuff really, we just leech off someone else’s broadband.’

  Hunter composed a brief email asking for Alec’s help, wrote in the Lorenz code with no further explanation and pressed send.

  ‘Now, how are we going to get Amy back?’

  7

  Hunter had watched Joth take money from his bank’s hole in the wall on enough occasions to easily remember his pin number, 1789, the birthyear of his dead friend’s Germanic hero. The old man had said that they shouldn’t suppose the rendezvous would be straight forward, simply handing over the material and expecting to have Amy returned wouldn’t be enough. He’d cautioned Hunter that an insurance policy of sorts wasn’t just advisable, it was essential. The camera though had been Hunter’s idea, but when he’d looked to the old boy, Wiseman had shaken his head, closed his eyes and let out an involuntary grunt, Hunter presumed at the futility of their situation.

  “I really have all the photographs I need,” he’d said gesturing towards the crowded piano lid and reaching for his cigar holder, and so Hunter had caught the first available tube to Tottenham Court Road, but not before Wiseman had insisted he tell him exactly what he intended to do. He made Hunter walk him through every step of his plan and then, once he’d sanctioned it, the old boy made him prepare another plan all together in case anything should go wrong. Then he had helped Hunter work out an escape route.

  The counter was awkwardly situated as Wiseman had suggested it should be. The man who owned the shop, McAllister judging by the broadly painted sign outside, eyed Hunter suspiciously from the moment he entered. McAllister’s Photographic was the third shop he’d scouted on Tottenham Court Road. The first hadn’t sold quite what he was after, the second, an Indian run enterprise had been far too busy and Hunter had worried about becoming trapped if anything should go wrong, but in McAllister’s there was just the one man running the shop. Hunter guessed he was in his late forties, his hair was deserting him and he awkwardly carried a little too much weight, a slim line of perspiration running unerringly down the back of his pale blue shirt. He quickly acknowledged Hunter with a perfunctory nod before returning to a stock order which was refusing to tally. McAllister fitted Hunter’s requirements perfectly and so he got to work choosing from the array of high end SLRs on display. Any one of the top end bodies would do but he plumped for a Cannon. It was the lens which most concerned him, a telephoto with the highest zoom available. Next an 8 gigabyte memory card and finally a monopole on which to rest the heavy lens and camera.

  Hunter waited for the shop’s only other customer to leave and nervously approached the owner. He placed the items on the counter and tried to look as confident in front of the man he assumed to be McAllister as he could. McAllister rang everything through the till without comment before placing each item into a large branded plastic bag. Hunter found Joth’s wallet and McAllister offered him the machine. He keyed in the four digits he’d seen his dead friend use so often and waited anxiously whilst the owner regarded the card machine’s display, then there was an intrusive beep and paper was spewing out of the back of the card reader.

  ‘We’ve had a few problems recently,’ McAllister commented as he tore off the rejected receipt, reset the machine and handed it back to Hunter, who was certain he’d keyed in the correct pin number. Now there was the very real possibility that, following the events of the previous day, Joth’s card had been cancelled. Hunter would wait and see if McAllister’s machine would co-operate and if it refused he would be forced to resort to Wiseman’s plan B.

  Once again, a significant tail of paper rolled out of the rear of the card machine but this time when McAllister addressed him much of the Dundonian’s earlier bonhomie had disappeared.

  ‘Rejected again, son.’

  ‘Would you mind very much if I used your phone. I’m sure I can sort this out with one quick call to the bank,’ Hunter replied as casually as he felt able.

  When McAllister turned his sweaty back on Hunter to retrieve his telephone from beneath the counter, Hunter bolted. He grabbed at the bag and ran as hard as he could towards the door, hoping to take the Scotsman, who would still have to navigate the difficult counter, by surprise. Hunter sprinted from the shop, turning sharply, barely registering the blacked-out BMW parked on the opposite side of the street and continued up Tottenham Court Road and away from the tube station. This wasn’t the first time someone had tried to rip McAllister off and throwing the phone uselessly to the floor he was quickly after Hunter, shouting to a pair of policemen patrolling further up the street.

  A quick look to his right and Hunter found what he had been searching for. Mindful of the large plastic bag full of photographic equipment at his side he vaulted a safety barrier running along the curb and began weaving in and out of the oncoming cars. As he reached the traffic calming island in the centre of the road and the vans and taxis around him changed direction Hunter heard what he took to be two sets of heavy police boots land behind him, but there was no time to turn and see, he must press on. The police would have leapt the barrier as he had. He was just one lane of traffic away from safety as two cars shot past, the second blasting its horn as it swerved to avoid him. Hunter sprinted across the road, cleared the barrier on the opposite kerb and scampered breathlessly down an alleyway running along the side of one of Central London’s shabbier hotels. Halfway down the alleyway, in a neat line which belied the quality of the establishment, a row of industrial sized council bins. Hunter ignored the first two. The third stood invitingly open. He threw in the bag and slammed the heavy lid shut. Past the giant bins, a fire door kept ajar with half a house brick. He kicked the brick away before disappearing into the hotel, turning quickly to observe the heavily sprung door swing shut behind him.

  An hour before entering the camera shop Hunter had scouted the area. Wiseman had suggested the plan. He had found the hotel and slipped in on the stern of a large group of young American backpackers. As they had swamped the concierge’s tiny desk Hunter had quietly crept away. A long service corridor, lined with faded wallpaper from a different era, and a heavily worn and discoloured carpet, lead Hunter to the exit. He’d left a supermarket shopping bag tucked behind a fire extinguisher, opened the door, confident that any alarm had probably long since have been disconnected, found the half brick doorstop and opened the bin all before returning to Tottenham Court Road.

  Steadying his breath Hunter recovered the flimsy plastic bag and pulled out Wiseman’s overcoat and a floppy cricket hat he had spotted in his hallway. With the brim of Wiseman’s hat pulled down shielding his face and the party of American tourists still checking in, he left the hotel, crossed the street and watched as the two policemen exited the alleyway. He saw one of the men check the first of the bins and then his partner was calling him away as his walkie-talkie crackled to life with more urgent matters. He would wait a while longer before gathering his spoils.

  ✽✽✽

  Hunter sensed they were running out of time. He found a large oak with one low branch between them and the Peter Pan Monument. The branch obscured him nicely and was not so high that with the monopole he couldn’t get a good shot of the area. He flicked the switch to manual, f numbers and shutter speeds an unwelcome liability, then put the Cannon’s view finder of his eye and, ignoring the preening ducks
and distant swans, rattled off a swift sequence of photographs; empty benches, overflowing rubbish bins and a close up of the boy who never grew old. Then, adjusting the telephoto lens, Hunter found a corner of the envelope Wiseman had taped under the bench. There was still no sign of Amy.

  ‘He isn’t coming, is he?’

  ‘He’ll be here,’ Wiseman said, pushing back a heavy French cuff to examine his watch.

  The lead runners were just starting to appear. Hunter tracked a willowy athlete as he pounded past the statue. Not far behind him, a trailing pack. They seemed fresher than the leader and Hunter supposed they were bidding their time before moving in for the kill.

  ‘What is this?’ Wiseman was asking.

  ‘A fun run.’

  ‘Really, do such things exist? Surely to god no one runs for fun, only for purpose.’

  ‘You’d be surprised, George.’ Hunter looked anxiously at the envelope. This had never been part of the agreement. This had been Wiseman’s idea and Hunter was praying to god that it worked. There was still no sign of the giant who had carried Amy off. The old man stood next to him, shaded from the midday sun by the overhanging tree. Hunter watched as a group of runners lolloped past and then flicked back to keep an eye on the envelope. They’d agreed not to confront the giant, banking on him phoning Hunter on his mobile when they didn’t show up at midday. Hunter had had to admit, the old man did seem to know what he was doing.

  ‘He’s not coming. Where is he?’

  ‘Scott, he’ll be here.’ Wiseman gave Hunter’s arm a reassuring tap and then checked his watch again.

  ‘Then why do you keep doing that? You’re making me nervous.’

  ‘He’ll be here.’ The old man nodded grimly. ‘It’s time.’

  ✽✽✽

  Chris Wilson was setting a good pace. A clear getaway had helped. At Marble Arch he’d met some of the other runners and his nerves had started to settle down. Andrew had come down from Glasgow the night before and Stewart was another Londoner, the three falling into nervous conversation whilst going through their warm ups. They’d listened distractedly to a minor TV celebrity needlessly shower them with incoherent words of encouragement before sounding a klaxon and sending them on their way. The trio tracked each other around most of the course until, just before the 10k mark, Chris had started to tire and let the other two press on without him. He checked his running computer. Not a bad effort, and there had been television cameras at the start, so always the chance that Ben and Sophie would see their dad after all.