Summerland

by Hannu Rajaniemi

  ‘I will hold on to this for a while. We have a lot to talk about, and we would not want you to leave us too soon.’

  ‘Nora. Show some respect,’ Otto said.

  ‘He understands, dear. He is a professional. Aren’t you, FELIX?’

  Peter said nothing. The thought of escaping to Summerland had crossed his mind, but leaving Pendlebury with these two was hardly an option. Besides, they were likely to be armed.

  ‘Please excuse my wife,’ Otto said. ‘We were instructed to take precautions.’

  ‘Instructed? By whom?’

  ‘Your new case officer,’ Nora said, smiling. ‘And speaking of precautions, take off your mask and tie this around your eyes.’ She held up a piece of black cloth.

  ‘No. I want to know what this is about. Who is this new officer? What happened to George?’

  Nora’s smile vanished. She exchanged a look with Otto via the rear-view mirror.

  ‘His name his Shpiegelglass,’ she said quietly. ‘He will explain everything. Now do as I say.’

  She took his wrist in an iron grip and pressed the cloth in his hand.

  Peter removed his mask. It was a custom for the New Dead to wear them when using mediums, both to separate the medium’s identity from the customer’s, and to hide the unavoidable ‘possessed’ look that resulted from the spirit’s inability to control their facial muscles. Pendlebury’s face was reflected in the window, slack-jawed and dead-eyed. Tufts of dark hair stuck out from the spirit crown’s silver net.

  Quickly, Peter tied the blindfold over his eyes.

  ‘That’s better,’ Nora said.

  Peter’s throat was dry. They drove in silence for a while.

  When the car came to a halt, Nora took Peter’s hand. He could feel the cord of the spirit crown in her grip like a leash.

  ‘Now, let’s go and see Shpiegelglass,’ she said.

  * * *

  Nora led Peter out of the car, through a door and into a cold, empty space that smelled musty. Glass shards crunched beneath his shoes. They descended a narrow spiral staircase for several minutes, the air growing thick and oppressive. They had to be deep underground.

  Ahead, somebody—Otto?—opened a heavy door. Peter smelled the mixture of antiseptic and poorly washed humanity he associated with hospitals.

  Then Nora took Peter’s shoulders and gently eased him into a chair. She removed the blindfold, and he blinked at dim fluorescent lights in a high, arched ceiling. They were in a small space partitioned off from something big and cavernous with green hospital curtains.

  A small, stout, blond man with protruding eyes sat on a folding chair in front of Peter, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, the tips of his thick fingers pressed together. There was a heavy leather suitcase on the floor next to him.

  ‘Good evening, FELIX,’ the man said. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Shpiegelglass. I am sure you have many questions, but if you don’t mind, I am going to start with a few of my own.’

  He motioned to Nora, who handed the spirit crown control box to Otto and took a step forward.

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ Otto asked, his voice reedy and thin. ‘We made sure he was not followed—’

  ‘Comrade Otto,’ Shpiegelglass said, ‘would you prefer to answer a few questions instead?’

  Peter heard Otto shuffling his feet.

  Nora was holding a hammer and a very sharp, needle-like chisel. Shpiegelglass nodded to her. She stood behind Peter and pressed the chisel’s tip against one of the thick vertebrae in his neck.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Peter hissed.

  ‘I am sorry about this, Comrade,’ Otto said.

  The small smile on Shpiegelglass’s face did not waver.

  ‘Our Nora is not only beautiful but also talented. She is an accomplished sculptress who has exhibited bold work in Rotterdam. She is a student of anatomy, and is able to sever your spinal cord with one blow, just at the right spot to paralyse but not kill. I do apologise for the discomfort. This is merely a precaution, you understand, in case your answers do not prove satisfactory. We have other guests who have failed to be helpful. I am sure you have no desire to join them.’

  There was a faint moan somewhere beyond the green curtains. Peter imagined lying in a hospital bed, trapped in Pendlebury’s paralysed body until the medium’s brain started to reject the foreign spirit and developed the inevitable tumours.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ he whispered. ‘What have I done?’

  Shpiegelglass pulled his chair closer and leaned forward until Peter could smell his faint aftershave and meaty breath. He gave Peter’s knee a fatherly pat.

  ‘Why, that is precisely what we are trying to find out. Tell me, why did you request an in-person meeting?’

  Shpiegelglass’s voice was gentle, yet Peter hesitated. Telling him about Inez felt like sharing something intimate with a stranger. The tip of Nora’s chisel was a tingling point against his neck. He could feel its slight rise and fall in rhythm with her breathing.

  ‘FELIX. I understand you are upset. You are not sure why I am asking these questions, why I am treating you like an enemy. All will be made clear. I am here to help you, just like George was. But I cannot do it blindfolded. Please. Why did you ask for the meeting?’

  ‘There is a couple, the Harrises, who work for the SIS,’ Peter said. ‘They are hosting a soirée tonight. It offered me an opportunity to give my regular report to George.’

  ‘I am sure you know that an ectophone recording or an encrypted ectomail would have been much safer. I take it you had something very important to share? I want to believe you are not here to betray us, FELIX. I know Nora does, too.’

  ‘For the love of God, I am not here to betray anyone! Why can’t you tell me where George is?’

  Tears rose into Peter’s eyes. He wished he still had his mask to conceal the hideousness of a crying man with a dead, empty face.

  Shpiegelglass leaned back in his chair and stroked his upper lip with a crooked finger.

  ‘I cannot tell you because I do not know,’ he said slowly. ‘A month ago, I came to London with a very pleasant task. I was to perform the Termin Procedure on George. He was to receive his reward for long service and join the Presence.’ Shpiegelglass’s smile vanished. ‘Imagine my surprise when he was nowhere to be found. We had to reconsolidate his network—not an easy task, as it turned out that many of his reports had been incomplete. Finally, a source inside the SIS informed us that a senior Russian intelligence officer had defected. A bear of a man, bald, with a fondness for drink.’

  The words were a punch in Peter’s gut. Pendlebury’s soul felt his pain and squirmed inside him. He was half a ghost again, half a living man, a contradiction.

  Like George being a defector.

  In mathematics, if you started with a contradiction, you could prove anything to be true. One could be made to equal two. Black could be turned white.

  Was it the Termin Procedure? George had often talked about the Presence in an irascible manner, like describing an overbearing relative. Maybe George was afraid. Maybe if Peter had explained to him what the Presence was, if he had only tried harder that night they first met, George would have understood—

  ‘Why?’ Peter whispered.

  ‘The why no longer matters,’ Shpiegelglass said quietly. ‘Now you see why we took precautions. You could have been followed, or used as a decoy duck. George could have turned you as well. Observing your reaction, I do not believe he did. However, it is possible that the SIS knows about you. It is prudent to assume they do. Therefore, it is imperative that you tell us what you were going to tell George, since that is the one thing left about this operation that is not compromised.’

  ‘No,’ Peter said. ‘This has to be some kind of misinformation operation, he is under instructions from the Presence—’

  Shpiegelglass shook his head and touched Peter’s shoulder.

  ‘Betrayal feels sharper than Nora’s chisel, I know.’ He motioned to the
woman and the metallic pressure against Peter’s neck disappeared.

  Peter massaged the sore point. The words rolled out easily now.

  ‘I asked for a meeting because I have a new source in Madrid,’ he said. ‘A Republican fighter. She told me that Iosif Dzhugashvili, Stalin, is in Spain. The SIS wants to put him in charge of the Republic so Britain can stop supporting Franco. I am supposed to present to a special committee tomorrow, including the prime minister. I wanted to talk to George because I did not know what to do.’

  Nora started to take notes as Shpiegelglass asked more questions.

  Peter told him about Inez’s recruitment process, BRIAR and what he had gleaned about the uneasy alliance of parties that formed the Republican Government. It took the better part of an hour, and when the spirit crown’s timer chimed, he realised it was seven in the evening.

  ‘I am nearly due at the Harrises’,’ he said. ‘I will be missed if I don’t attend.’

  Abruptly, Shpiegelglass stood up. He folded his hands behind his back and paced around in tight circles. Then he picked up the suitcase, placed it on top of a small surgical instrument trolley and opened it.

  ‘I am afraid you will not be attending, FELIX.’

  The case contained a Fialka Terminal, easily recognisable by its ten wired rotors, typewriter keyboard, silver-grey sheen and a Ouija-style alphabet disc for displaying answers. Only a few illegals—NKVD operatives living in foreign countries with a false identity—possessed a Terminal, a direct line to the Presence. The last time Peter had seen one was in Cambridge.

  ‘There is a high likelihood that you have been compromised,’ Shpiegelglass said. He punched a long sequence of letters and numbers into the machine. The rotors spun and sparked, and spun again.

  Peter’s new handler opened a second compartment and took out a contraption that resembled a spirit crown but was larger and of distinctly utilitarian Soviet make. It had a thick frame that went over the skull and a halo-like arc with two porcelain-tipped electrodes. Curly copper wire connected them to the terminal.

  ‘If your cover is blown, it is safer if you do not go back. And the fastest way to convey your findings to the Presence,’ Shpiegelglass said, ‘is to perform the Termin Procedure on you.’

  Peter stared at the device. A sense of relief washed over him. He would not have to face West tomorrow. He would never have to lie again.

  He was going to join the Presence.

  Peter smiled as Shpiegelglass placed the device on his head. It was heavy and barely fitted over the spirit crown. Its function was exactly the opposite: to push the soul out, to transmit it directly to the Presence. The body he occupied would not survive.

  For a moment, Peter felt a twinge of regret for Pendlebury. But at least in death the man would be free from having his body used as a receptacle for the pleasures of wealthy dead.

  Shpiegelglass’s fingers danced deftly on the Fialka’s keyboard. The electrodes pressing against Peter’s head warmed up. The air smelled of ozone.

  He tensed, but there was no pain. The world began to warp into a sphere, like a fisheye lens. Then everything went dark, except for a white pinpoint in the distance. It rushed towards him and grew. It was a face, made of light. Its benevolent smile was framed by a perfect, triangular beard. Its radiant vastness filled Peter’s vision.

  The song of the Presence washed over him. The voices of the countless souls that made up the Being rose in praise. Longing to join the chorus, he tried to dive into the smiling god-star’s corona.

  He was denied. The will of the Presence held him suspended before its all-seeing gaze.

  Let me in, he screamed silently. I want to be you.

  The Being swallowed him.

  It was like drowning in an ocean of light. Suddenly, he knew that—like the mind of the ectotank—the white around him was the sum of many colours, many souls.

  The brightness poured in through his eyes like a liquid and filled his skull. It left no room for fear or doubt. For an instant, Peter Bloom ceased to be.

  And then the Presence withdrew.

  Its absence was worse than death. Peter could not bear it. He heard a terrible sound and realised it was his own voice, screaming. In a mad hope he clawed at the spirit crown’s cable. If he escaped Pendlebury’s body, maybe he could still follow the Presence.

  Then Otto and Nora grabbed his arms and held him tight. The only light he could see was the cold, greenish fluorescence of the underground hospital.

  ‘Send me back!’ Peter cried, tears flowing from his eyes. His mind throbbed like an open wound. ‘Please. Try again. Send me back.’

  Shpiegelglass frowned and punched a string of letters into the still-humming Fialka. The arrow on the alphabet disc moved instantly and spelled out a sentence, twitching from one letter to the next. The Soviet agent let out a surprised, musical chuckle. Then he flipped a switch. The Fialka sparked one more time and died.

  ‘Well, FELIX,’ he said, ‘our task is not yet finished. The Presence thinks having access to the Iberian Commission is more important than the risk of exposing you. And if I know George, he will play the SIS for a while, bargain and cajole. You will be his last card. So there is still a little time.’

  Shpiegelglass closed the suitcase with a snap.

  ‘I have been instructed to go to Spain immediately. Otto and Nora will be your case officers in my absence. As for you, young man—it looks like you are going to make it to your soirée of spies after all.’

  8

  AN EVENING AT THE HARRISES’, 10TH NOVEMBER 1938

  The following Thursday evening, Rachel had butterflies in her stomach when the cab left her at 6 Chesterfield Gardens in Mayfair. She was there to attend a social function hosted by Tommy and Hildy Harris, and potentially to betray her country.

  In contrast to the nondescript middle-class flats of most spies, the Harrises lived in a magnificent, sprawling house Tommy Harris’s father, a prominent art dealer, had bought with his fortune. The brisk night air carried down notes of cello music from the well-lit salon on the second floor, mixed with a faint hubbub of conversation and clinking glasses. It sounded like the Group—as the spies who informally gathered at the Harrises were called—was present in full force.

  Tommy and his wife Hildy were endlessly gracious hosts. At one point, they had even worked as de facto caretakers and cooks for the Service’s operations school at Brickendomby Hall. They had an apparently bottomless wine cellar and a Latin passion for cooking and entertainment. They instinctively understood that the people of the secret world needed a safe place where tongues could be let loose and guards lowered with no regard for rank or secrecy, and were utterly dedicated to making their home a safe haven for spies.

  Yet, for the first time, Rachel felt apprehensive when she rang the doorbell beneath the marble arch of the main entrance. The wine-red evening dress, high-heeled shoes and thick layer of make-up felt uncomfortable, and there was a touch of cold sweat at the small of her back.

  Hildy herself opened the door. She was a small woman, pretty like a doll, with rounded cheeks, a tiny nub of a nose and a ready smile—a stark contrast to the dark and enigmatic Tommy. She stood up on her tiptoes to kiss Rachel’s cheeks, then gripped her forearms firmly.

  ‘I heard,’ Hildy said in a low voice. There were few women in the secret world, but they had never been close. Rachel had always appreciated that Hildy treated her as one of the boys, keeping her distance and playing the host. But now her tone was warm. ‘It is lovely to see you, regardless.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world!’ The last word was a squeal. Rachel giggled. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I may have started with a couple of large glasses of Merlot at home. Please don’t tell anyone. I’ll behave myself, I promise.’

  Hildy frowned. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Please do come in. Everybody is here!’

  Rachel took a deep breath and followed her inside, desperately hoping that everybody included Peter Bloom.

  * * *


  She had been against Max’s scheme from the start.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ she had protested two days earlier, after their planning session. ‘I have no training in this.’

  In response, the large blue-breasted Amazon parrot sitting on a perch screamed an obscenity in Portuguese. They were in the dead spymaster’s jungle-like conservatory in his flat on Sloane Square. Rachel sat on a rickety wooden chair in the shade of a palm tree, balancing a saucer and a teacup on her knee.

  ‘Ssh,’ Max said in a rattling, gramophone-like voice. ‘Goo is finally sleeping.’

  His spirit presently inhabited a life-sized Edison doll, with nyctoscope camera eyes and an amplified ectophone in its belly. It wore an expensive smoking jacket covered in bird droppings. Rachel missed Henry the medium. While the doll was a good likeness, with its saturnine, hawk-nosed face and bushy eyebrows, its black pinpoint eyes and complete stillness were unsettling. Some of the newer models had small electric motors the spirit could control to make basic movements, but to Rachel that was even worse. Still, it did not appear to bother Goo, the baby cuckoo resting peacefully between the Max-doll’s folded wooden arms.

  ‘My apologies to Goo,’ Rachel said. ‘But I really do not think this is a good idea.’

  ‘Can you come closer? I can’t hear you very well.’

  That was hardly surprising given the cacophony of animal noises that filled the place. Every room in the small flat apart from the bedroom of Susi the maid was a veritable zoo. At the door, Rachel had been received by a white Bull Terrier and a large, lumbering black dog—which turned out to be a bear cub called Jasper, considerably more affectionate than his namesake at the Winter Court. When she used the bathroom, she barely suppressed a scream when she spotted a tangle of live bullfinch snakes in the bathtub.

  Sighing, Rachel pulled her chair over next to the Max doll and angled its head to improve the pickup of its microphone ears.

  ‘That’s better,’ Max said. ‘Now, as to training, none of my agents ever had any. That was what made them so effective. They were ordinary women, secretaries, clerks. Utterly without guile, yet possessing extraordinary courage—’