Truth and Lies

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Truth and Lies Page 4

by Marguerite Valentine


  ‘You know the score. Besides I was exhausted… I’m not now, so what about it?’

  She made no reply. She pulled him roughly towards her. It was sex the way it had always been between them; quick, urgent, a physical act which lacked tenderness, romance or affection. No questions asked, nothing was expected, other than the obvious. All either wanted was the occasional fuck, and that suited them both. She was still pulling on her clothes as he pulled open the door to return to his car. ‘Thanks,’ she said, to his disappearing back.

  He turned round. ‘My pleasure. It was just what I needed.’

  She walked across to him and, putting her face up to his, she said, ‘If you’re going away, why don’t you kiss me?’

  He took a step back, distancing himself from her upturned face. ‘Kiss you. Are you joking? No, I don’t kiss. I’m not into it. Neither you or anyone else.’

  ‘Why not?

  ‘Because I don’t, I just don’t. It’s not my bag. I’ll see you sometime.’

  He walked rapidly down the lane, flung himself into the car and accelerated off. He got to the end of the lane when it occurred to him that he rarely kissed any woman. The realisation had shocked him. He leant forward, fumbled in the glove department for his gum, pushed it into his mouth and drove at speed back to Lavenham.

  — 4 —

  Mid morning and Seb was about to meet his handler at a coffee shop in Stoke Newington, Hackney. The handler liaised between the Met, and the corporate and private investigation firm which employed him. He’d never met him before. All he knew was his name, Gimp. Neither did he know Hackney, other than it bordered the largely affluent Borough of Islington as well as the ethnically diverse Haringey. Both had a mixed population which included the cool hipster, the urban literati, some professionals, and what was euphemistically called, the materially deprived.

  Before he’d been taken on as an undercover agent, he’d been given a number of tests and passed them all: the physical, the mental, the psychometric and the psychological. He’d even role-played, something he hated, but gritting his teeth, he’d got through and was now officially classified as ‘fit for purpose’. He felt a sense of achievement. One up on his father, he wouldn’t have had the balls.

  He had no idea how ultimately things would pan out, but he’d go with the flow. That was all he could do. His task was to infiltrate the anti-globalisation movements, feed back information on their members, their policies, their aims, their plans to resist and disrupt. He didn’t care who funded who or what their beliefs were, quite simply he saw it as an interesting opportunity. From now on he could seduce, lie, manipulate, blackmail, betray ─ all the things some City traders did on a day-to-day basis, but without the consequences. Its secrecy appealed, and he had no strong feelings about what he would be called to do.

  He’d been surprised and more than suspicious when he’d been first contacted. He’d been told there was the possibility of a new post, one which could include a large element of ‘compliance’ in the financial sector. It was for a good cause, protecting the State, and would be well paid and independent of market fluctuations. He’d assumed this meant monitoring the errant, those who didn’t follow the rules and regulations of the market place and there were plenty of them. But he’d been wrong, they weren’t interested in them.

  What they wanted was as much information as he could gather on what they called the anarchic riff raff. The anarchists were seen as the principal threat. They were unorganised, angry, well-read and worse, sought to destroy the foundations of the financial system itself. It was they who made the most noise about the present failures in the international money markets, and their message was having an impact. Support for the cause was growing.

  He’d been told that they wanted someone who was aggressive, someone who could work independently, play both sides at once, take risks, talk the talk, and had a cool head; qualities he’d used regularly as a financier. He hadn’t asked whether it would be within the law. It was immaterial, he didn’t care if it was or wasn’t, he’d do what was necessary. It was an opportunity, a challenge and one he thought he was well up to.

  As an Investment Fund Manager he’d become used to taking risks, playing the market, watching the political economies around the world, waiting for the assassinations, the coups, the crashes, the bad harvests; then he’d move in, mop up, buy up. He was merciless, thoughtless to the harm he might cause. He’d made thousands for his clients, but he’d been looking for greater challenges and was at the point of moving into Hedge Fund Management when he received the call. Someone had been watching him, had seen him as a good bet.

  The irony hadn’t and didn’t escape him. At one of the many interviews he’d been put through, he’d told them his motivation was purely personal and that he viewed with contempt the anti-globalisation protesters who seemed to haunt the City and Canada Square. But he was also curious. He wanted to know how they operated, who they were, and if money didn’t motivate them, what did? Their motivations were unknown to him, but he looked forward to the work. He’d get under their skin, get one over them, beat them at their own game and on their home ground. But the element that really appealed was becoming somebody else. That’s what he wanted.

  He’d been told to wait inside the Fat Cat coffee shop in Stoke Newington Church Street, and he’d be contacted. He had no idea what his handler looked like or even whether the handler was a man or woman. The name, Gimp, was totally neutral, although he assumed it would be a man.

  He’d parked his car down a side street, walked to the Fat Cat, and after ordering a coffee, sat down, and picked up one of the free papers scattered on the tables. His usual daily paper had been the Telegraph or the Financial Times but since the orientation programmes he’d started reading the Guardian. This was the paper of choice for the bleeding-hearted liberal, or that’s how he saw it. He’d been told he had to live the lie. Not so difficult he’d thought, it was something he’d been practising most of his life.

  Twenty minutes later, as he was about to order his second coffee, someone walked in and caught his attention. He didn’t quite fit into the cafe dress code, young, sharp, and urban. This guy had thinning grey hair, wore old baggy cord trousers, a check shirt, no tie, and an anorak. None of these fitted him. He stood briefly just inside the door, his gaze taking in the occupants of the cafe. His eyes were sharp, cold and grey, like granite. It would have been hard to place in terms of his occupation. The nearest description might be that he was an eccentric, with little regard for his surroundings or of fitting in, alternatively an intellectual down on his luck. Evidently having identified Seb, he walked across, drew up a chair opposite and sat down at the table.

  He leant back in his chair scrutinising him, then leaned towards him and lowering his voice said, ‘Seb? Right? ’ Seb nodded, held out his hand, which the man ignored. ‘I’m Gimp, so you can call me Gimp. We’ve business to do. They’ve told you the basics; I’ll tell you our expectations.’ He paused. ‘I’ll see you down the street’ and then he left.

  Seb paid the bill, walked outside, and for a moment, he thought Gimp had disappeared but then he caught sight of him. He was looking in an upmarket junk shop window, a few minutes walk away.

  He glanced up, saw Seb and said, ‘I was about to say, before the chappie at the next table showed an unusual interest in our conversation, for the moment you have to contact me regularly − daily preferably, any problem, any time, day or night.’

  He scrutinised Seb, watching him closely for any reaction, then said, ‘Let’s go,’ and set off at a fast pace towards Clissold Park. He talked as he walked, occasionally throwing quick glances at Seb, presumably checking he was still paying attention.

  ‘You need to get up to speed. Your clothes have to go. Dress charity shop. If you have to buy new, go to an outdoor shop; choose middle range, nothing flash. Don’t attract attention. Ordinary poor, that’s the look.

  ‘Sh
oes; trainers, fell boots, look scruffy, down at heel, dress the way they dress. It’s function, not style.’ He stopped and stared at him. ‘You look like a nob. You’d stick out a mile looking like that. You’ve got to merge in. Right? Do you get what I’m saying?

  ‘Second. Lingo. Talk the talk. You’ve got to get into a different mindset, see the world a different way, their way, so listen, pick up the jargon. You’re reading the Guardian. A good start, but it’s only one of their papers. Read the Independent and the financial press, then there’s the anarchist propaganda. Half of them are comics. They’re all crap anyway. But they’re not stupid. They use the net, twitter, facebook. Keep on top of the game. Watch what you say and who you’re speaking to, and keep looking over your shoulder… This should be revision for you. Any questions? ’

  ‘What about my car?’

  ‘What about it? It’s an Audi, isn’t it? Or was.’ For the first time, he smiled. ‘As we speak, it’s being towed away, but we’re not cruel. You need wheels. So we’ve left a van in its place. It’s a nice one, red, appropriately, and straight from the public sector auction. An old post office van. You’ll like it.’

  ‘Is it okay to drive straightaway?’

  ‘Yes, but not back to Shoreditch. You should have been told that. You’re moving to Seven Sisters. Very salubrious. It’s all arranged, including your rent on both properties. You don’t have to do a thing, except pitch up there. Here’s the address. I’ll see you there. Tomorrow, ten a.m. Anything else?’

  Seb shook his head.

  ‘Good. Enough. For the time being.’ He stopped, handed Seb two lots of keys, one for the van, the other for the flat, and strode off.

  Seb looked at his vanishing back. A man of few words but an arsehole of the first order. He walked back to where he’d parked his Audi and as Gimp had said, it had gone. In its place a red, old post office van, clean inside and big enough to carry any gear he might need. Inside the glove compartment, were insurance papers and a log book, both were registered in the name of Seb William Harvey. The date of birth was the same as his own. His new identity. He turned the key in the ignition and drove to the address he’d been given.

  It was a small, ground-floor flat in an old Victorian house. The street was dismal looking, not far from the tube and well placed for the City. Inside the furnishings were minimal. There was a strong smell of disinfectant as if it had been cleaned recently. Seb took a look round. It didn’t take long. One bedroom with a single bed, one bathroom, one living room, one tiny kitchen, and every floor covered with a cheap wood laminate. No pictures, except for a reproduction of Constable’s The Hay Wain. He took it down and pushed it under the bed. Apart from that, a table, a small bookcase, two chairs, a sofa, a worn rug, lace curtains in the window that looked out over the street, and heavier ones to pull across when it was dark.

  The only thing new was a television with internet access. He opened one of the kitchen cupboards, found a packet of unopened teabags, made himself a mug of tea without milk, and sat down. It was time to get a feel for the area and check out the charity shops for the type of clothes Gimp had advocated. Wood Green was the nearest shopping centre and within walking distance.

  He stopped outside the first charity shop he came across, and stood outside for a moment before he swung inside. He knew such places existed but he’d never set foot inside one, until now. Even Lavenham had them. His mother, amongst other moneyed members of the community, sent her cast-offs to them. There, they were smart, expensive and looked more like boutiques, but the same couldn’t be said here. The clothes were well worn, cheap, made of manmade fibre, and a contrast to what he was used to: natural fibres, sweaters made of cashmere, alpaca wool, shirts of the finest cotton. He felt distaste, even revulsion as he fingered the outworn garments but he forced himself to pick through them. He finally bought a selection of tee shirts, sundry trousers and two pairs of worn trainers.

  He handed them over to the shop assistant. She was sitting behind a counter and looking bored, as she stared down at her mobile.

  ‘Do you have any fleeces?’ he asked.

  She glanced up. ‘They fly off the shelves as soon as they come in,’ she said. ‘Try the market or T K Max.’ He must have looked blank. ‘It’s down the road, in the shopping centre, but you’ll have to buy new.’

  It didn’t take long. He returned to the flat, emptied the plastic bags carrying his new gear, bundled the charity-shop clothes into the washing machine and stood looking out of the window. All he could see was a constant stream of cars, with a few passers-by. He was bored. He put on the television, flicked through the channels, idly watched the Parliamentary debates, and the lists of market fluctuations in the City. The rates were still falling. The hysteria still rising. He reflected on the fact he was now an ordinary member of the public, an observer of the economy and not part of it, and that without the buzz of the City and clinching a deal, for the moment he felt at a dead end. He wanted some excitement. He wondered who else lived in the house. He idly picked up a book he’d brought with him, called Profits before People; he’d been told it was essential reading.

  He heard the front door slam; someone ran up the stairs and walked heavily across the floor in the flat above. He read only a few pages, before falling asleep and when he woke it was dark and the street lights were flooding into the flat. He pulled the curtains across, crawled into bed and slept deeply. He woke just before nine, breakfasted, watched the news and sat waiting for his meeting with Gimp.

  Gimp was on time. He greeted Seb cursorily, sat down on the threadbare sofa and asked how he was, but true to form, didn’t wait for an answer. There were no niceties. He was on transmission, no reception. He had a direct stare, almost as if spearing Seb with his eyes. It was intimidating. He refused Seb’s offer of tea or coffee.

  ‘Okay, let’s go. First, get to know the local groups. You attend their meetings. Mix with them. Talk the talk. Go to demos. You pitch up to anything and everything. Your role is to find the most vocal, the most organised, the most committed, the ones with the most followers. Then you begin infiltrating, forming alliances, making contacts. Get your face known.’

  ‘I need my cover story for that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you’ve got one. But you got to know it backwards, forwards, inside out, so, no matter what, you never think about it.’

  ‘I’ll be okay. Some of it’s true.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Affluent background. Disillusionment. No brothers, no sisters.’

  ‘That’s part of it.’ He paused, fixing Seb with his penetrating stare and, slowing his staccato speech right down, he said, ‘Okay, let’s practice. I’m gonna take you through it. Give you a hard time. See how good you are at blagging it. See how you operate under pressure.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yeah, right now. Sit over there.’ He pointed to the table.

  Seb moved across. Gimp placed his chair opposite and gave him one of his specials, the Gimp death stare.

  ‘Okay. Your name?’

  ‘Seb, Seb Harvey.’

  ‘Age? Date of birth?’

  ‘Twenty five, born 3rd Feb 1983.’

  ‘Which university did you go to?’

  ‘Buckingham.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean, why?’

  ‘Why Buckingham. It’s self-funding, isn’t it?’

  ‘My father chose it. He knew people there.’

  ‘You can’t stand up to your father.’

  Seb paused. ‘Is that a question or a statement? ‘

  ‘Just answer.’

  ‘Don’t know what to say.’

  ‘How about he’s a bastard, and look at me straight in the eye when you say it.’

  ‘It’s difficult.’

  ‘Go on, say it. Loud, with passion.’

  ‘I reserve that for women.’

 
‘Is that supposed to be funny… let’s hope your interrogator also has a sense of humour… So… returning to the chase, what course did you do?’

  ‘Business with Computer Security and Economics. Joint honours and I got a first.’

  ‘Big deal. So you’re a swot. And then?’

  ‘Didn’t want to work in finance, but my father insisted, got me a job in the City. I didn’t stay long, I dropped out.’

  ‘Why, when you had a good job.’

  ‘Didn’t like it. Didn’t like the people. They got up my nose. Greedy, ruthless. I began questioning what it was all about.’

  ‘Good. That’s good. Think up an example, one where they screwed someone, and let them know all about it.’

  For two hours Seb was faced with a battery of hostile questions. He answered all of them without blinking. He’d put himself in the mindset of how he’d felt as a child when his father used to harangue him for not having done something that he should have done. He’d developed a technique of switching off from him so nothing could get through. He’d transformed into an automaton. Nothing fazed him, because he’d become devoid of emotion.

  Gimp suddenly stopped. ‘Not bad, not bad at all but we’ll have another session. I’ll drop by, catch you when you’re least expecting it, focus on your childhood, your past. I know a bit about it. Some crazy snatched you from your cot, didn’t she?’

  Seb didn’t answer. ‘Well, isn’t that true? That’s what I’ve been told.’

  ‘I have no memories of it.’ He looked away from Gimp’s prying eyes, thinking he had no intention of telling him.

  Gimp leant towards him. ‘Really? Maybe you don’t have any memories of it, but I know now how to rattle your cage. Next time, look at me straight. Tell me it’s none of my business. Pressure. You gotter get used to it. Once they know your weak point, they’ll go for it, until you crack.’ He stood up. ‘Any questions?’

 

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