by James Wolff
It wasn’t real. This was the elaborate idea Jonas was spinning in his mind as Naseby raced the car through empty streets towards his hotel. That the operations room was not an operations room, that they hadn’t been working for five days straight, that the woman in red shoes hadn’t been having a real conversation about the effect of weather patterns on aerial surveillance, that Meredith had only pretended to be annoyed with Naseby. That it was all a trick to get him out of the country. That his father was not going to be rescued.
He saw a possible future disappearing behind him like a turning he hadn’t taken. He might have thought it was odd, as the plane’s engines started up, that he had been given a seat at the opposite end of the cabin to Meredith and Naseby, that two aircrew sat facing him in the middle. He probably would have wondered why they were climbing to such a high altitude for a forty-minute flight. He would almost certainly have asked when they were expecting to land in Cyprus and been puzzled and then annoyed by their non-committal responses. And when he rose from his seat to ask Meredith what was going on the aircrew would have asked him to sit down and held out their arms to block his path and grabbed him by the wrists and the shoulders to drag him backwards into a seat fitted with restraints that he had seen but assumed were a routine, unfamiliar feature of all military aircraft. After that he wouldn’t have had to ask why the plane was changing direction, or why no one would look him in the eye. He would have had time to get ready for the police officers on the runway, for the handcuffs, for the end of hope.
“You look a bit unwell, old man,” said Naseby. “It’s not my driving, is it?”
They had tried something similar before, Jonas thought, in 1943, but on that occasion it had worked. They should have kept it as simple. The corpse had belonged to a Welsh vagrant. They dressed him in good-quality woollen underwear and the uniform of a captain and filled his pockets with theatre tickets and love letters to make him look real. The sea did the final bit, carrying him and his cargo of top-secret plans for the Allied invasion of Greece into enemy hands. The planners of that operation had the right idea. A corpse can’t strike the wrong conversational note, a corpse doesn’t drop an empty notebook by mistake.
“Right, here we are,” said Naseby. “Home for the next few hours.”
Jonas had the beginnings of an idea.
2
“I imagine you’re shattered,” said Naseby. He closed the door behind them. “You drifted off once or twice on the way over here. Want to hit the hay? A car’s coming for us at 5.45, which is” – he consulted his watch – “just over three and a half hours from now. Not a proper night’s sleep, but not to be sniffed at either. You take the bed, I’ll take the couch. No, please – I insist. I can sleep anywhere. Once managed ten hours straight in a car boot all the way from Sarajevo to Vienna.”
Naseby moved between his three rooms on the eleventh floor, switching on lights and drawing curtains.
“Have a look at the view, Jonas,” he called out from the bedroom. “Best place to stand is in the corner behind the sofa. That way you can see the harbour and the mountains.”
As he crossed the room Jonas caught sight of Naseby’s reflection in the television screen, kneeling to put something out of sight in the bottom third of the hallway cupboard.
He appeared at Jonas’s side. “That’s where the old spy school was, give or take,” he said, pointing towards the mountain. Its lights pulsed weakly as though they would struggle to make it until dawn. “Started in Jerusalem, moved briefly to Zarqa in Jordan – where Zarqawi was from, incidentally – and finally settled in the Chouf Mountains of Lebanon. Maid’s put clean sheets on the bed so it’s all yours.”
“My mind’s racing too much to even think of falling asleep. I might sit up for a bit.”
“Are you sure? Things will start moving very quickly when we hit Cyprus. It’s a good idea to get some rest while you still can.”
“Which military base in Cyprus are we flying to, by the way?” asked Jonas. An easy enough question to answer if the whole thing was real. He decided to add another layer of pressure. “I heard recently that they’ve closed down one or two of the airfields for repairs.”
“Really? Yes, these things do require an enormous amount of upkeep, don’t they? Jets these days are fitted with thousands of sensors, I was reading just the other day, where was it now, for everything from air pressure to wind speed to fuel consumption, and I imagine that means every time a rivet pops out the whole kit and caboodle has to be grounded. Health and safety – discuss, eh? For my money it’s better to be safe than sorry. I mean, an hour’s delay while they check everyone’s bags is hardly the end of the world. What do you think?”
Jonas started to reply but Naseby quickly said, “I think I might leave you with the view, if that’s all right, while I attempt a spot of Egyptian PT in the bedroom. It’s been a long day. What do you say? Television’s over there, bathtub’s in the bathroom, camomile tea’s in the kitchen and pillows are in the hallway – actually, forget that, I’ll bring some pillows through in case you change your mind.”
“Thanks for everything.” Jonas rubbed his eyes, held his arms open and stepped forward. Naseby wasn’t the only one who could play a role. “I can’t get over how kind you’re being after all the things I’ve done.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Naseby, patting his back. “Now if you’ll —”
“I may go for a walk if I can’t sleep, but if I do I’ll let myself out quietly so I don’t disturb you, and I’ll either be back up here or downstairs in the lobby – one of the two – around six.”
“Quarter to, on the dot. Best aim to be back at half past just to play it safe. Where do you think you might go? Just a quick turn around the block, I imagine?”
“How long would it take me to walk to the end of the Corniche and back?” Jonas asked. “Not more than an hour each way, surely?”
Naseby looked alarmed and then disappointed. He glanced into the bedroom, he eyed the pillows.
“Tell you what, maybe I will sit up with you after all,” he said. “Can’t have you walking around in this rain.”
“It looks as though it’s stopped.”
“It’s very changeable at this time of year. Meredith will take my pension away if you turn up at the airport sniffing and sneezing. After all you’ve been through recently.” He took the pillows back from Jonas and threw them into the bedroom. “Tell you what, you’re not a whisky man at all, are you? I’ve got the remnants of an exceptional bottle of Tullamore Dew in the kitchen. Probably enough there for two large ones. Notes of tar and split logs. Fancy a tumbler? That’ll help you to sleep.”
“Let me get them,” Jonas said. “It’ll give me something to do.”
On his way to the kitchen he picked up his rucksack from the hallway. He made plenty of noise opening and closing cupboards until he found the whisky and two clean glasses, and with his back to the door he rummaged through the rucksack for the packet of pills he had been given for his headaches. He popped four of them loose on to the kitchen surface.
“One small ice cube for me,” Naseby called out from the living room. “Just enough to bring out the caramel finish.”
Jonas wasn’t sure how many would be enough. He had never taken more than two, and that dosage had made him feel catatonic within an hour. Four should be plenty. He divided the whisky between the two glasses and broke the plastic capsules open above one of them. The powder fizzed and sparkled and settled into a vivid green scum across the surface. He tried to stir it in but the same layer soon re-formed. Naseby would notice it instantly.
“What are you doing in there, digging up some peat?”
Jonas found a can of Coke in the fridge and divided it between the two drinks. For good measure he added another two pills’ worth of powder to Naseby’s glass.
“Sorry for the wait,” he said.
“Christ alive, Jonas, what act of barbarity have you carried out against this poor defenceless whisky? Have you got somethi
ng against the Irish?” He held it up to the light. “Possibly the worst thing you’ve done yet,” he muttered, sitting back in his chair and reaching for the television remote.
The mess Jonas had made of the whisky emptied Naseby’s reservoir of goodwill, previously brimming over at artificially high levels, at a stroke; without a word of consultation he rifled through the channels until he found a tennis match that was just beginning and settled back in his chair to watch it in silence. He ignored his drink out of principle for five minutes. He found it difficult to sit without something in his hands, though, and experimented with wedging them under his thighs, drumming a round of applause on each arm of the chair each time a point was won and inspecting his nails. Occasionally he would look at the glass and shake his head. But by the time the players were concluding the first-set tiebreaker, and apart from one final complaint – “I’d forgotten how godawful Coke tastes” – he was a quarter of the way through it.
It didn’t take long after that. The first sign that something was happening was a low humming noise that Jonas thought was coming from the television but turned out to be from Naseby himself. Then for a period of several minutes he struggled to keep his head upright, and when that passed he said out loud, “Unusual to get snow at this time of year” and “Well, that’s what I’d expect a Frenchman to say!” He seemed for a while to be recovering a little, mumbling, “I don’t know what’s come over me” and reaching for his mobile phone, but by the time he remembered the PIN code he’d forgotten what it was he was doing, and he returned it to the carpet with a gentle thud. “You a tennis player, Charlie?” he asked, looking round at Jonas. “I play a bit, don’t know if you’re aware. Not this kind of thing.” He waved dismissively at the television. “I’m of that vintage that was raised to value spin, ball placement, all-round athleticism. The tennis player’s most valuable weapon is his brain. That’s what my tennis coach used to say.” His speech was slurred as though he was drunk. He tapped his forehead. “Out-think ’em and you’ll outplay ’em. These days it’s all bosh, bosh, bosh, seven-foot Croats firing missiles at you, where’s the fun in that? Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take on all comers. Just last week some twenty-something-year-old kid challenged me to a set. It’s six–six, tiebreaker time, and after trading a few from the baseline I draw him into the net with an easy one to his forehand, he sends it back with interest, I deliver a slice sharp enough to take his toes off, he’s struggling, I put him out of his misery with a backhand cross-court winner down the right side. No, wait – was it the left side? Maybe it was the left side. Yes, my game’s got a bit of finesse to it. Harvey’s the opposite. You should see him running all over court, tiny little fellow, grunting like Monica whatshername. Everything’s a lob so far as Harvey’s concerned. He is tenacious, though, I’ll give him that. Like a little dog, like a little Chinese…dog.” He yawned. “Spectacular legs, too. Normally a breast man but those legs could convert anyone. Saw her play Steffi in 1990 at Roland Garros.” He gave a long low admiring whistle and fell asleep.
3
The specialists must look down on the practice of searching a hotel room, Jonas thought: it was so much more straightforward, so much less idiosyncratic, than a person’s home. Easier to get into, for one, what with guests having roaming rights throughout the corridors, the ubiquity of cleaners and maintenance men to provide cover and the speed at which a hotel key card could be copied. No alarms, no barking dogs. And then, once you are in, a layout and design that you are already familiar with from the hundreds of other hotel rooms you have seen. Anything that looks out of place belongs to the guest.
Jonas started in the bedroom. It made things easier that there was no need to replace everything in its original position – to put Tom Clancy back underneath The 10 Habits of Highly Successful People, or to remember whether the bookmark was at page 42 or 142 of Naseby’s well-thumbed copy of The Thirty-Nine Steps. It would be immediately apparent to the next person who came through the front door that something significant had taken place in these rooms. No attempt to tidy up loose ends was going to change that.
Suit trousers, jackets, shirts, chinos. One belt, three ties. A neat pile of ironed handkerchiefs. A tennis top with the words “The Buchaneers, 2004, Nulli Secundus” embroidered in gold thread across the breast. Brogues, tasselled loafers and deck shoes. It was evident that Naseby had ended up staying longer than originally expected: four of the eight shirts hanging in the wardrobe had been bought in Beirut, along with a new pair of tennis shoes and three sets of socks that looked distinctly cheaper than the others, which had all come from the same Jermyn Street tailor. He had started to collect assorted receipts in an envelope marked “expenses” that was propped up on the underwear shelf. Most of these were for meals, including what appeared to be a lunch for three people just the day before – the day everyone had supposedly been working flat out – that had covered three courses at a cost of $223.70. Jonas was surprised by how easy it was to build up a picture of Naseby’s typical pattern of life, from his mid-morning espresso and biscotti at the Beirut Souks branch of Starbucks to his lunch of grilled chicken with a glass of dry white wine at Al Balad on Nejmeh Square. On the back of the receipt for the tennis shoes he had written “liaison??”. Jonas heard a single thud and an increasingly loud noise coming from the living room.
Naseby was sprawled across the floor with the remote control underneath his belly while the crowd applauded the winner of the match at full volume. He switched the television off. Naseby appeared to be breathing normally. Jonas rolled him on his side, checked that his pockets were empty and arranged a cushion under his head. There was no need for him to suffer unnecessarily at this stage.
He didn’t waste much time in the bathroom – shampoo, two types of conditioner, teeth-whitening strips – before moving on to the hallway and the wardrobe where Naseby had hidden something when they first came in. He knew before looking inside that Naseby wouldn’t have used the hotel safe. It wasn’t so much the argument that hotel safes could be opened by any staff member with access to the master key, or that they made it easy for an intruder to know where to focus their efforts. It was more that he couldn’t see an old-fashioned professional like Naseby relying on something so obvious. The whole point of being a spy, after all, of daring to risk one’s life behind enemy lines in Sarajevo or Moscow, was that one didn’t place one’s faith in combination locks or three-inch steel but in a well-timed dummy, in nimble footwork, in spin.
Jonas finally found Naseby’s diplomatic passport under the basket containing the shoe-shine kit, and a sealed envelope inside the trouser press. The envelope contained a letter written in Arabic on a single A4 sheet of paper. At the top in the middle was a crest depicting a cedar tree with two golden wings coming out of it and a scroll underneath on which something was written in Arabic. Jonas went back into the living room and retrieved Naseby’s phone from the floor by his chair. There had been ample opportunity earlier to watch him trying to type in his access code – 0887, 0807, 0007 – and he quickly found the hotel Wi-Fi and logged in. The first line of the letter, he guessed, would be general greetings. He downloaded an Arabic keyboard, chose a medium-length word from the second line and typed it into a translation website as best he could, experimenting until the word looked as close as he could get it to the one on the letter. “Colleagues”. Encouraged, he jumped forward a few words and repeated the process. No result. He tried another word. No result. Then “permission” or “approval”, followed by “seven”. No result. Losing patience, he went to the crest at the top and spent five minutes confirming that the letter had come from the Lebanese air force. Back to the text. “Airport”, “direction”, no result, no result, “apple”, “with”, “fantastic”, no result, no result, no result, “destination”, “London”, no result, “Great”, “Britain”, no result, “peace”, “shortly”. Signed by “Major General”, “Emile”, no result.
The phone suddenly buzzed in his hand. A text from Meredith: “Pls c
onfirm cargo intact.” Jonas wasn’t sure whether he had to reply – Naseby would have been fast asleep in the bedroom if he had been allowed his own way. He scrolled through earlier messages to gauge the right tone and to put her mind at ease settled on “All fine. He is sleeping.”
He took the opportunity to see whether there was anything else on the phone that might be of use. It had been active in the Vauxhall area on twenty-two occasions in recent months, and among the dozen photos – mostly of oriental lamps, which he had sent to his wife with comments such as “This one?” and “Yellow would match the carpet” – was one of Naseby and Harvey standing on either side of a tennis net with their arms around each other’s shoulders. The chain of messages between them dated back to a week or so before Naseby had first visited Jonas at his apartment. The majority were taken up with arrangements for various tennis matches and subsequent gloating by the winner; Harvey seemed to come out on top more often than Naseby had suggested. Others appeared to refer to work but involved codes, either personal or professional, such as “Give him the PJR treatment” and “Your 116/5 incomplete. Can you resend? On other matter, I’m informed ‘clock will strike twice’, which is a bloody relief!”
But there were a handful that Jonas was able to match up with specific incidents, such as the day that Harvey had knocked on Tobias’s hotel room door (“He’s with a Swiss national, first name Tobias, got any traces? Lemme know. Lift broken ffs. All those stairs gd cardio!!!”) and several hours before one of Harvey’s phone calls to Jonas (“Would you be able to put in a call to our chap tonight? Late-ish, we think. Tell him a horror story. Valerie says thanks for the ‘cookies’, they’re the high point of each day!”). More recently, after Jonas had run from the surveillance team, Naseby had sent the following message to Harvey: “He’s slipped our chaps. We’re checking usual areas. M still adamant we don’t go to locals – pls enforce same policy your end. Can you make discreet enquiries at hotels? Any male foreigners 30–40. Next dinner on me. We’ll sting the office for it.”