The Double Bind of Mr. Rigby

by Brian Martin

  My train left King’s Cross at nine and remarkably I was in the centre of Newcastle by noon. I checked into my hotel. It was a dull, drizzly day, but I decided to walk down to the Malmaison on the quayside to reconnoitre Arne’s territory. From there it was a short walk across the new winking eyelid millennium bridge to the Baltic on the Gateshead side of the river. Somehow, even in the fine rain filling the air mistily out of a dark sky, the city still had a glitter to it. There was an abundance of new architecture, buildings had a new gloss to them, the whole of the city seemed to buzz with vibrancy. Dejected Paldiski came to mind. What a difference. This city hummed with life, shoppers, business people, students from the university. I returned to my hotel and took my one light travelling bag that I had left at the desk, to my room. Myrex had given me a number to ring. I dialled and was answered by a young woman’s accented voice. I could not quite place the accent. It might have been German or it could have been Dutch. Either way, the English was perfect and overlaid with the usual slight American tone. She recognised my name and said that she had been expecting a call from me. That surprised me. Myrex’s confidence in knowing that I would accept their bait annoyed me. I resented that my compliance with their suggestion had been taken for granted. I felt too much like their puppet at that particular moment and I wished that I had delayed my follow-up of Arne’s invitation. I should have delayed, missed the Newcastle rendezvous, and waited to see if they would then pursue me.

  The young woman, who appeared to be Arne’s personal assistant, proposed that I should meet Arne for dinner that evening in the top-floor restaurant of the Baltic Centre. She said that the view of the city at night was stunning. From the Baltic’s vantage point you could see both ways along the river, a lively, lit-up city, with streamers of moving car lights criss-crossing this way and that. I agreed that the venue sounded pleasant and said that I would be there at the time she suggested.

  The view was splendid. The Millennium Bridge was illuminated and every so often its colours changed. The Quayside with its smart hotels, restaurants, cocktail bars, apartments and offices twinkled and glittered in the night air. I was standing with a glass of champagne in my hand looking out on to the panorama of the city. Arne was not to be seen when I arrived. I was there before him. He was expected. I mentioned his name to the major domo and he said he had been instructed to offer me champagne at the bar if I preceded Arne. Again, it was simply Arne: no mister, just that single-syllable name. I stood sipping my champagne and surveyed the sparkling city.

  A few minutes later I felt a touch on my elbow. I turned and Arne was standing before me, smiling. He extended his hand and I shook it.

  ‘How very good to see you, Mr Rigby, or perhaps I should say Pelham as you prefer,’ he said. ‘I hope it’s not too much trouble to come all the way up here. I had to be here. We are have a huge property development going on and certain business interests that are best served here to do with our trade with Scandinavia and the Baltic states.’

  ‘Not at all. We hacks are used to travelling around the place. The story’s the main thing. Where it is and where it leads is where we go. Sometimes it’s worthwhile and sometimes it’s not. Anyway, I am combining it with writing something about London’s export of art to this part of the world.’

  ‘Sure. I see what you mean about this project.’ He looked expansively round the Baltic’s restaurant. ‘The whole of this Baltic enterprise is a brave piece of artistic investment. I hope it works. I hope, too, that you are provided with lots of copy here.’

  I noted that he saw even artistic ventures in terms of financial investment. I doubted that he had any aesthetic sensibility at all. If he collected works of art at all he did it for investment purposes, capital gain, percentage profit.

  ‘Well, there’s plenty I can write about. I’ve only been in Newcastle this afternoon, but already I can give a good slant on cultural development here. It’s a lovely place, so much going on. Have you seen the Julian Opie?’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t, Mr Rigby. My time seems to be taken up with Myrex affairs. Maybe I shall have the opportunity before I fly out.’

  I felt uncomfortable with him reverting to Mr Rigby. If we were to have dinner together, it would not do. Although I hardly knew him, it seemed appropriate that he should call me by my first name. The difficulty, of course, did not arise in my addressing him: he was simply always Arne. So I pleaded, ‘Look, it seems awfully formal for you to call me Mr Rigby. Please call me Pelham.’ I wondered what strangers felt when asked to call me by that ridiculous name; but there was nothing for it. It was the name I was stuck with. Perhaps Arne assumed it was an ordinary, run-of-the-mill English name, but I doubted it.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. The waiter had handed him a glass of champagne while we were talking. He crossed the room to a window and pointed with his champagne glass up river towards a necklace of lights that spanned the water and then looked down as the Millennium Bridge changed, chameleon-like, from blue to green.

  ‘This city is now so agreeable, don’t you think, Pelham?’

  It sounded so odd. Even though I had only just invited him once again to call me by my name, the sound was strange coming from the lips of someone I hardly knew. It made me feel slightly disoriented. I had to pull myself together and think very clearly of where I was and what I was doing.

  ‘It is. There is such a difference now that so much money had been spent on redevelopment of the North East. This is an international city. After all you’re here, and that proves it. It’s grown up. It’s taken its place in the adult world of big business and trade.’

  The waiter came over and ushered us to our table. We sat and looked out over the river. I could see the lights of the Malmaison.

  Arne was not forthcoming. He deflected questions about Myrex in Estonia. He said I should wait and see what they had planned. It was early days. Their whole venture might be a flop. The project was purely speculative. Once again I was up against a supreme diplomat. He sanitised his conversation. He told me only what he had planned to tell me. I thought I would try to ease his tongue with drink, but he was abstemious and I saw very quickly that if I were not careful, I should be the one whose tongue was oiled so much to reveal secrets that I should have preferred hidden. I pulled myself up and took care. What he did was to probe me. I realised halfway through the meal that his intention was to find out more about me. He asked me about Raoul and Roxanne.

  ‘Have you seen Raoul recently?’ he asked. ‘I know he’s been in London.’

  It immediately struck me as an odd question. I was sure he would have known if I had met Raoul: he was simply testing the waters. I calculated that I should answer truthfully. Roxanne would not object.

  ‘No, but of course I have seen his wife.’ I decided to pre-empt him. ‘You probably know that I see her whenever she is in London, or when I’m in Seville, which, alas, is not often. Raoul, I gathered, was extremely busy. Roxanne and I have been friends for some time.’

  ‘Just so,’ he said. ‘She’s a beautiful woman. I envy your friendship. I’m surprised in a way that Raoul has not got you to work for us.’ He added ambiguously, ‘Your talents could be of advantage to us.’ I did not like that remark. It made me uneasy. What did it mean? Did he know more about me than I gave him credit for? I knew I had to tread carefully.

  ‘You know,’ I responded, ‘I think Raoul prefers to keep me at a distance. He tolerates me. Paradoxically, I serve a purpose for him. If I were merely an employee, our relationship would change.’

  Arne moved the subject on to journalism. He wanted to know what I found so fascinating in writing for the press. There was not much money in it. He kept emphasising that I could make much more money working in business. Perhaps I should consider taking a position in one of the Myrex conglomerate’s subsidiaries. My relationships with Raoul and Roxanne might be preserved since Raoul would be at one remove: he would not be directly involved. I became convinced that this was a recruitment exercise. The sole reason for
Arne meeting me was to entice me on board the great Myrex vehicle. He had no intention of feeding me any information about Myrex or anything to do with it. It was like an invitation to join the Freemasons: you could not know about its interior workings until you joined. The murdered American in Tallinn was certainly a dead duck. I was going to be given nothing by Arne. He was campaigning. I was the subject of that campaign. I resisted.

  ‘You might not believe this, but I find great satisfaction in journalism. I actually feel that I can tell the truth about various things, bring them into public view, invite scrutiny. All this is possible to effect. It’s an immense power. You know what they say, the Fourth Estate … And, in a way, it’s a privilege that others don’t have. That’s what I like about writing for the papers. I know you get a lot of lies but there is also truth there somewhere.’

  Arne was unperturbed. He listened carefully to me. He considered my arguments and countered them. He was polite, unruffled. He suggested I wrote books. I could work for some Myrex company and if I were serious about writing books, it would be possible to come to an arrangement that would make the time available. He was sure that all that would be necessary would be an acknowledgement of Myrex’s sponsorship in an introduction. I had heard of the generosity of some of the big private companies in this respect, especially the Greek banks and shipping companies. They would put you on their payrolls and demand little of you. Their reasons were various. They might want to neutralise an individual, or buy him off. Increasingly it seemed to me, Arne was trying to engage me for Raoul’s enterprise while at the same time keeping me at arm’s length from him. I had been in intelligence long enough to understand that there was something wrong. Someone had decided that I was needed under control. My relationship with Roxanne slightly complicated the matter, although I did not fool myself that if they decided to remove me altogether, they would do so without a second thought. In extremis even Roxanne would be expendable.

  I realised that they must know of my links to Willy and the British Security Services. Naturally they did not like that. Their aim was, no doubt, to suborn me. At least, Myrex would give me a bear hug, an embrace from which it would be impossible to escape. That way, even if I went on with my intelligence work, they could know what I was doing. I wished, at that point, I could have talked to Mark. I needed consultation and advice; but it was not possible. Of course, in a sense, Arne was right. To write a book, say on the emergence of the Baltic states into democratic Europe, would have satisfied my altruistic ambitions for writing. He was a tempting devil.

  Our conversation continued. Arne showed no surprise that I did not waver, that I gave no ground, and that I appeared determined to work as I had been doing for so long. He did not become exasperated or hasten the meal to its end. He remained calm, and changed the subject to the state of the British economy. What was it like for entrepreneurs? From the evidence he could see in Newcastle, they were doing well. Were there special tax concessions that helped them? Why was there not the same encouragement, for example, in Germany? We discussed various theories and analysed the health of the EC. What would happen to Britain and the euro? At the same time, as we talked, I was conscious of his acute scepticism of my view of journalism. He did not believe in my position. It was clear that he could not conceive that I could be sincere. To hold to that faith, anyone would have to be naïve. That was his belief. It did not worry him. I had the conviction that he was confident that I would come round to his view in the fullness of time: there was no need for great hurry. There was something dangerous about the man, and it was the first time that it really struck me. He was like a cobra, holding me in his sight, patient, venomous, waiting for the right moment to strike. There was no rush for him.

  We finished the evening with a fine malt whisky, a sixteen-year-old Lagavulin. He had asked me what I recommended and fortunately the restaurant kept that whisky. When we parted, he repeated his offer to me in the form of advice.

  ‘If I were you, I should think seriously about what Myrex can give you. It would be to your great advantage. You would find your way of life infinitely preferable to the way you lead it now.’ He spoke as if he knew the intimate details of my private life, and, who knows, perhaps he did. For some reason, an image of the winking West Indian in my Olympia pub crossed my mind. Had he a Myrex connection? Maybe it was that knowledge that gave Arne an advantage over me. I thanked him but maintained my position.

  ‘Well, we must stay in touch,’ he said. ‘If you change your mind, just contact me. In any case, we should meet from time to time. On the personal level, I enjoy your company. I enjoy talking to you.’

  I thought that confession strange. I tried to work out what part of his strategy it belonged to, but failed. It occurred to me that he was genuine in the admission that he liked meeting me. It was an aspect of the man. Nevertheless, I still retained a strong feeling that what affected him personally in terms of friendship would always be secondary to his Myrex loyalty. He was like a spy whose allegiance to his country was paramount. Family and friends took second place. So, although I did not trust the man, I thanked him for the evening, told him how much I had enjoyed myself, and promised that I would stay in touch. He gave me a mobile telephone number by which I could always reach him. He stressed that it was very much restricted and that I should pass it on to no one. Again, I thanked him, this time for his confidence. He meant me to feel a privileged person.

  We walked back across the Millennium Bridge to his hotel. The Malmaison was brightly lit, and an elegant woman escorted by a tall Chinese-looking man was just going in. The height of the man was unusual for a Chinese and I drew the conclusion that he must have been brought up on the West Coast of America where, after two or three generations, the diet makes immigrant Japanese and Chinese taller than their native countrymen. Sure enough, when I heard him speak, it was with a marked American accent. I said goodnight to Arne, we shook hands, and I walked away towards the city centre and my own hotel.

  16

  At around 7.30 the following morning, the phone by my bedside rang. I woke disoriented. The splendid malt of the night before had made me sleep deeply. I recovered myself, and reached out to take the call. Naturally I wondered who could be calling me in the hotel, especially at that early hour. Arne immediately came to mind. He knew where I was: I even had the feeling that he always knew where I was.

  ‘Pel. I hope I haven’t woken you too early, but I’ve a busy day.’ It was Mark. I had given him my hotel number as a sort of precaution. It is always necessary to have cover for one’s advance. Military tactics are as important in intelligence as they are in infantry attacks. I swallowed a gulp of water from the glass on my table and said, ‘Good to hear you, Mark. I’m afraid I’m a little mentally impaired by some malt whisky I had last night. Never mind, I’ll get over it.’

  ‘You lucky beast,’ he retorted. ‘Is everything going well? What have you managed to find out? Has Arne enlightened you?’

  ‘I’ve not got very far. But Arne’s an interesting case. Myrex seem to want to buy me. They must be on to me. Arne has, in a sense, fired a first salvo, warning shots, I should think. He suggested I write a book. Myrex would keep me. What do you think of that?’

  Mark was surprised, fascinated, and said he had been right to warn me to be careful. He asked what I was going to do next. I told him that I regarded myself as privileged because of my connection with Raoul through Roxanne.

  ‘I don’t know where I would be if I didn’t have Roxanne as an insurance policy.’

  ‘Probably with the dead American in Tallinn docks, or at the bottom of the Thames,’ he responded. ‘It depends how much of a nuisance they think you are. I don’t like it though. Organised crime is thoroughly ruthless. Basically people like you and me don’t matter in the least. National governments tend to be more discriminating and bureaucratic in their eliminations.’

  I knew he was right and I knew I was at great risk. In all probability, he was too.

  ‘Well, there
we are. That’s the position I’m in. There’s nothing I can do about it. But this is interesting. On another level, I think Arne likes me. He likes talking to me. In a different world we could be good friends. I think he wants me to keep in touch just for conversational companionship. Odd, isn’t it?’

  Mark, loyal as ever in his friendship, said, ‘No surprise there. Of course anyone in his right mind would want you as a friend. It’s useful though. It might compromise him and help you. We’ll see. Be careful.’

  ‘I learned nothing from him about what’s happening in Tallinn, nothing about the American. He gave nothing away. I only learned a little about him; but I suppose it was worth it.’

  Mark’s schedule that day was awesome. He was meeting some German institutional investors in the morning at the offices of a merchant bank in the City, talking to an analyst at twelve in a champagne bar in Old Street, lunching at the Groucho, and then going on to the Evening Standard to talk to a journalist on the financial pages and to watch the pages being put to bed for the late edition. We agreed to meet at our pub on the riverside later in the evening. That gave me the second of two things that I could look forward to. The other was to find out if Roxanne was still at the Connaught.

  I was back in London by midday. There was no point in staying in Newcastle any longer although I had taken a liking to the city. It was friendly, hospitable: in the short time I had been there, I had begun to feel at home. I drafted a short article on culture in the North East, wrote enthusiastically about the Baltic Centre, and finished reading that week’s Economist.