The Spy's Daughter

by Adam Brookes

  Patterson thought of the Security Branch people at VX, crowding Hopko, slicing open the case, timing every twitch and twist of it, hunting the correlations. The thought nauseated her.

  Polk drove her back to the Embassy. As he pulled up to the driveway, Patterson reached for the question that had been scratching at the walls.

  “Frankie, the woman at the motel. Monroe’s love interest.”

  “No idea who she is.”

  “What did your people say about her?”

  “Probably Asian, in her thirties. Five eight, slim. Elegantly dressed, scarves, fancy coat. Bourgeois demeanour, whatever the fuck that means. Confident. Physically fit, but not military. Probably not a trained operative. Diplomat, intellectual type. Body language said resolve, tension. Like she was planning.”

  “Presumably the jewellery was for her. So she was in Taipei with Monroe.”

  “Fair assumption, but not proven.” He looked at her, snorted. “Why? You got someone in mind? Hmm?”

  Patterson was thinking of a room in an Oxford college—its creaking floorboards, the smell of unwashed clothes, furniture polish. And in the middle of the room, a nameless woman with the eyes of a raptor and the clip of the China coast in her speech. The two of them, Patterson and this nameless being, had stood there, scenting, each knowing the other for exactly what she was.

  Patterson despised intuition, and like any good intelligence officer, hated coincidence, too.

  “No,” she said. “Of course not.”

  “Shame,” he said.

  At Monroe’s house, there wasn’t any crime-scene tape. There was just the wife, Molly Monroe, standing behind a mesh screen door, her fingers to her chin. A show of concern, even fright. She had manicured nails, an oversize engagement ring alongside her marriage band.

  Patterson stood on the porch holding a bouquet of white lilies, working her depleted reserves of charm.

  “The British Embassy wanted to share our condolences, Mrs. Monroe. We are so very sorry for your loss.”

  Molly Monroe said nothing, just looked at her, unsure.

  “We knew your husband very well, and we were very great admirers of his work.”

  Molly’s hand went tentatively towards the screen-door handle.

  “Here’s my identification, of course,” Patterson said, holding up her Embassy ID. The screen door opened a crack, and she grabbed it and pulled it open, pushing the bouquet at Molly.

  “Thank you so much. I’ll only come in for a moment,” she said, stepping inside.

  Molly walked them through to the living room. It was painted in salmon pink, and had uncomfortable, low-backed leather sofas, Asian art on the walls—some old Mao-era revolutionary posters, framed.

  “Please. Sit,” she said. Her hair was straight and grey, cut strangely in a pudding bowl. She wore a white cashmere jumper and slacks. Her face was collapsed, exhausted, eyes blank.

  “This must be a very difficult time for you,” Patterson said.

  Molly looked away, held her hands in her lap.

  “If there is anything we at the Embassy can do, you will let us know, won’t you?”

  Molly looked back at her.

  “Do?” she said.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Can you get the FBI out of my house?”

  Patterson blinked.

  “I …”

  “No, of course you can’t.”

  Patterson, calculating now, wondered whether to probe.

  “Have they been here a great deal? That must be exhausting.”

  “Oh, it is. They’ve taken everything. All our papers. Our computers. Our phones. They searched the entire place, dividing each room up into little grid squares. Going around on hands and knees. They even pulled out drywall.” She had started to knot and twist her fingers.

  Had they placed surveillance devices too? wondered Patterson.

  “Well, I’m sure you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  Molly turned and looked straight at her.

  “Oh, really?”

  Patterson affected surprise.

  “Why? Are you concerned?”

  “Did you know my husband?”

  “By reputation only.”

  “Well, he …” Her face was puckering, lip trembling. “He was not, not the kind to … to shoot himself.”

  Patterson knew to say nothing.

  “He was not.”

  Patterson wondered when she’d last eaten or slept. Or talked to anyone.

  “Mrs. Monroe, do you have relatives? Someone who can come and be with you?”

  And at that, the woman crumpled, the tears coming. Patterson went and sat next to her, put an arm round her. She was thin as a bird.

  “Is there anyone?”

  “There’s our son. But he’s not here.”

  Patterson sat for a moment, just holding her. Then took the initiative.

  “Mrs. Monroe, I’m going to go to your kitchen and make you something to eat. Would you do that? Eat something?”

  The woman wiped her nose and shrugged.

  “When I eat, I throw up,” she said. Patterson went to the kitchen and opened cupboards. There was a tin of tomato soup, some crackers. Patterson microwaved two bowls and brought it all back on a tray. The woman hobbled over to the dining table and sat. She took a mouthful of soup.

  “Molly, sorry, may I call you Molly?”

  She gave a fractional nod.

  “Molly, you say he wasn’t the kind, but what are you suggesting? I’m sorry to ask, I’m just a bit startled by that.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, talk to the FBI.”

  “But did something happen? Was there something—perhaps a few months ago, that made some sort of difference to him?”

  Molly looked up, her eyes red.

  “Do you know something?” she said. “Anything? About what happened? They don’t tell me what they’ve found out, the FBI. It’s infuriating.”

  Careful, Patterson thought.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to be intrusive. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all? Can I come and see you again?”

  The woman was sagging again, now, looking down at her soup. She seemed to give a small retch, put her spoon down and placed a hand on her stomach.

  “Look, I can talk to the FBI,” Patterson said. Now dangle it, she thought. Seal the deal. “And perhaps I can let you know what I find out. Quietly. Just us. What about that?”

  “Would you do that?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Molly’s eyes searched her.

  “Are you involved in the case? In some way?”

  “Molly, a great many people are very concerned. Really. And we at the Embassy just want to ensure that we’re doing everything we can.”

  “You’ll contact me? If there’s anything you can tell me?”

  “I promise.”

  And having recruited Molly Monroe as an unconscious source, Patterson slipped out of the house, her own stomach lurching at the idea that the FBI would find out, and at what Polk would say.

  18

  Paramaribo, Suriname

  Mangan chose a small hotel called the Buena Vista as his base of operations. It was quiet, retaining at present only three guests besides himself, as far as Mangan could tell. It had tiled floors, air conditioning that filled his room with a sodden, chemical cold and, importantly, three exits. The desk staff were over friendly, demanding to know his plans, his needs, his touristic desires. He smiled, deflected their enquiries and pressed them on the question of a good restaurant. Mangan should, they said, ensure that he sampled the fine cuisine at Spice Island, richly influenced by Suriname’s South Asian heritage. Nor should he miss the novel and eye-catching fusion cuisine at De Magazijn. Its locally produced beef was as fine as any on the continent. The many warungs around the city also offered pleasing light meals with their roots in Indonesia. Would he be requiring driver and guide to accompany him on his forays into the city? Regretfully, Mangan informed
them, he would not. They took his passport, but Mangan did not see them make a copy. He paid cash in advance for the room, and left cash as a security deposit, apologetically informing the staff that his credit card had expired. From overuse, he joked, and the staff laughed appreciatively.

  In his room, he closed the curtains, sat on the bed in the gloom and felt his heart race.

  76, Prins Hendrickstraat. Teng. Lawyer.

  Mangan thought of the moment he had been gifted this information, this nugget of possibility. The words, hissed at him in fury and despair, were a weapon crafted to injure and to eviscerate, Mangan’s to wield.

  The sense of flatness and dislocation he had experienced in the past weeks was leaving him, he realised. The place and the task were taking on texture and immediacy, bringing with them the hyper-awareness he’d come to know, even to crave, and rekindling the fear in his gut that he’d learned to live with. The thought that he was working without London’s knowledge, let alone its authorisation or support, quietly terrified him and thrilled him. I am a journalist, he said to himself in moments of self-justification. I follow the story, and screw the rest.

  But you are a spy, too. And the rest, well, they may have something to say about it.

  With good footwork, he thought, he had a week—maybe two. Borrowed time, after that.

  He worked on his silhouette as far as he could, trying to lose the ragged backpacker look. He showered, shaved, ran a comb through the wet, red hair. He pulled out a crumpled white shirt from the depths of his duffel bag, smoothing it out ineffectually. He put on knee-length shorts and a pair of exhausted topsiders, which gave him the look of a visitor, but fell short of idiot tourist. He put on sunglasses, and left the hotel.

  Picking his way through old Paramaribo, Mangan was surprised by its stateliness, the white mansions of wood, their sidings embalmed in centuries of paint, their balconies and heavy door-knockers and shining nameplates. He took some photographs, made some notes. He made his way down to the Waterkaant, stopped at an open-air café, bought a coke and watched the Suriname River, its brown, sluggish undulation to the sea.

  He watched the street, its steady pulse, people Mangan did not know, could not read or understand. He was absurdly conspicuous.

  And yet. The city felt manageable. Few cameras, fewer policemen. A slow-moving, somnolent place of sodden heat and palm trees where people seemed uninterested in him for the most part. He had no sense that he was under surveillance. He had come from the other side of the world, and now the address lay only a short walk away. His stomach turned over at the thought of it.

  It was perhaps at this point that Mangan’s choices crystallised. Hopko would say, much later, that this was his point of no return, and all that was to follow grew from this moment at the café in the late afternoon, the breeze coming off the water laden with river-smell: mud, weeds, petroleum, sewage. Mangan drank his drink and rose, dropped the bottle in the trash, heard its glass clink, wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and walked north towards the fort. Then he turned west towards Prins Hendrickstraat to conduct what was, in his mind, a first pass.

  19

  Aruba

  Pearl had the window seat. As the plane banked, she saw rocky coastline give way to sand, hemmed in by shallow water of crystalline blue. She could see sunloungers and umbrellas on the beaches. The plane came in low over the water.

  Her parents, a row in front, were out of their seats and fussing with the baggage as soon as the seat belt sign was off. Pearl gathered up her phone, her tablet, her notepad and waited.

  They emerged from the terminal in sharp sunlight and a warm wind. They took a short taxi ride towards Oranjestad, her father complaining at the cost, her mother silent. The hotel was on the edge of the town, on a highway. The traffic was heavy with trucks, tourists in jeeps, and a stream of overweight men on motorbikes, the ones with the big handlebars. The bikers wore black helmets and gunned their engines for the deep-throated roar, and they seemed to ride up and down the highway, up and down. In the hotel, the rooms opened onto a pool and withered succulents in pots. That evening they ate burgers and fries in the hotel coffee shop, the only people there. The solitary waitress sat at the bar, thumbing her phone, and when her parents went to bed Pearl sat outside on a lounger in the dark, watching the pool lights shimmer. She read for a while, drank a coke.

  When she went back to the room, her parents were already asleep. But she saw that they hadn’t unpacked, and Pearl wondered why.

  The next morning, at breakfast, they were silent, tense. She looked at her mother.

  “Are we having a good time?” she said.

  “Don’t be rude,” her mother replied.

  “The two of you look like you’re about to go to the dentist. What’s wrong?”

  “Mei shi. Nothing wrong.”

  Pearl leaned forward.

  “You haven’t unpacked.”

  Her father looked up from his phone.

  “We might have a change of plan,” he said.

  Pearl frowned. “What change of plan?”

  “We are going somewhere else,” he said.

  “What? Why? I mean, this hotel is pretty gross, it’s true, but you won’t get a refund. Not now.”

  Her father made a dismissive gesture.

  “You go pack your things. We leave in one hours and a half.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just get ready. Please.”

  “Well, where are we going?”

  “We are taking another flight.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m confused. Are we going home?”

  Her father stared at her, and Pearl felt her stomach turn over; she drew back a little.

  “I mean, can’t you just, like, tell me where we’re going?”

  “Shut up. Go get ready.”

  They left the hotel without checking out, her father holding Pearl by the arm and guiding her to the taxi. Her mother said nothing.

  At the airport, her father checked them onto a flight to Paramaribo.

  Where the heck is Paramaribo? She took out her phone.

  Suriname.

  PART TWO

  The Approach

  20

  Prins Hendrickstraat

  Paramaribo, Suriname

  Number 76 was a pretty, white, three-storey house. The second-floor frontage was a lovely, shaded wooden balcony. The drainpipes and shutters were dark green. The front door was flanked by plant pots, and to its right hung a nameplate, its brass recently polished.

  The nameplate read:

  SOEHARDJO, N. T.–NOTARIS

  TENG, T. Y.–ADVOCATEN

  WINTER, F.–NOTARIS

  The door was closed, an intercom next to it. For a moment he toyed with the idea of just pushing the button, winging it, bellowing that he needed a lawyer as a matter of grave urgency, and only Mr. Teng, T. Y. would do, but the thought was crass and he pushed it away. He walked past. A driveway ran down one side of the house, bordered by a long, carefully tended flowerbed. One side door, with screen. At the rear, as far as he could see, was a concreted yard with some bins and what appeared to be a storage shed.

  The rest of the street was a mixture of small businesses and residences, overhung with palm trees. Some thirty or forty paces down the block was a café. It had three small tables outside, under an awning. Mangan went in, sat, ordered coffee, a sandwich—anything to give him time. He put his tourist map of Paramaribo on the table in front of him, and watched.

  At six minutes past four, a woman parked a white Toyota outside the house, approached the front door and used a key to gain access.

  At four thirty-two, an elderly man emerged, carrying a briefcase. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a tie. He appeared to be Creole, a black man. He jogged across the street, and walked away.

  Mangan ordered more coffee and some plantain chips. The afternoon was blindingly hot. He moved his chair further into the shade.

  At eleven minutes to five, the front door opened and t
wo men left, both carrying briefcases. One appeared to be white, the other of East Asian appearance. The two were deep in conversation, the Asian man gesticulating, explaining something. The white man locked the door behind them on a key that was attached to a chain, which was, in turn, attached to his belt, Mangan noted. The keys went in his right pocket. The two walked away from the house, towards the restaurant where Mangan sat conducting his rudimentary static surveillance. The man of East Asian appearance wore a pale shirt and a grey tie, with grey slacks. He was of late middle age, the hair thinning, combed optimistically towards the pate. His posture—a rigidness to the spine, a forward lean—betrayed long hours at a desk. He walked like an old man, Mangan thought, yet there was a cast to his face that was serious, ill-tempered, relentless, even. The two men seemed to be disagreeing, thrashing something out. They were speaking Dutch. Their path would take them right past the café. Mangan looked down at his tourist map.

  They were coming up on the entrance to the café.

  Mangan pored over his map.

  The two men, still speaking animatedly, entered the café and selected a table directly opposite Mangan’s.

  Oh, for Christ’s sake.

  Mangan stood with his back to them, put on his sunglasses—as if that might in some way render his rangy six-foot frame, red hair and pale legs less noticeable. He dropped money on the table, too much, and attempted to sidle from the café. As he passed the two men, he allowed himself a glance. They were still in conversation, paying him no attention, sipping lager from chilled, dewy glasses. The Asian man’s briefcase was at his feet. And on it, in large gold letters, in the manner of men who stamp their belongings to personalise them, his initials: TYT.

  Patterson had just got home to the flat, dropped her bag, stripped and walked to the shower when her phone went. She answered it, standing naked in the living room. For a moment there was nothing at the other end, just squelch and crackle. But then a broken voice—distant, hesitant.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “This is Patterson.”

  “Hello? Oh. Yes. This is Molly Monroe. I’m …”