by Henry Porter
Lighthorn looked at him steadily.
‘You’re asking me to believe that this chap with a foreign accent appears out of the blue at your home and starts talking to you about a crash that you were in and you invite him for a drink, without having any idea who he is or where he comes from? It doesn’t make sense. It’s clear to me that Edberg went to New York for the purpose of seeing you. During that visit I believe he gave you information crucial to the understanding of Miss MacKinlay’s murder and to the shooting at the Embankment. I want to know what that was. I’m not pissing about here. We’re looking for a man – or men – who callously gunned down two police officers and murdered a young woman. Those men may still be in the country. I believe that you may even be aware of their identity.’
‘That’s ridiculous. How could I possibly know them?’ He leaned forward in his seat and couldn’t help grimacing as the bandage on his shoulder shifted. ‘I’ve told you what I know.’
‘Then you give me no option but to hold you here. You may consider yourself under arrest, Mr Harland.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that we suspect you of an arrestable offence, namely involvement in the murder of PC Jeffrey Gibbon and shooting of PC Clive Low and the man known to us as Lars Edberg. I believe that you’re withholding information which would help us make arrests, Mr Harland. I hope that over the course of the next few hours you will realise that your only option is to be completely frank with me.’
‘But you don’t believe any of this! You’re making it up to keep me here and force me into giving you information I don’t possess – that I couldn’t possess. I have a statutory right to see a solicitor. I take it that you aren’t going to ignore that too.’ He noticed his hand was shaking and he knew his voice was somehow thinning.
‘By all means make a telephone call,’ said Lighthorn evenly. ‘I will see you later.’ With that he swept up the newspaper cutting and walked out of the room, leaving Navratt fumbling with the tape recorder.
He made the call to Harriet. She hurriedly told him that Robin had already been in touch with a solicitor named Leo Costigan who was standing by. She told him that she’d phoned the hospital and that the boy was still in a coma. They were doubtful whether he would ever wake.
Harland was taken to the cells. Several drunks and homeless men were there, who’d got themselves arrested in order to spend Christmas night in the warmth. There was a faint odour of urine in the corridor. Suddenly Harland experienced the stirring of blind panic. He reasoned to himself as he was led to the cell that he had already spent a night pretty much in custody and that he hadn’t suffered unduly. But he found he couldn’t control the fear and had to ask the policeman to wait for a few moments before locking him up. He said he felt faint.
‘You ought to have thought of that before you dried up on Commander Lighthorn,’ he said, and steered Harland into a cell. The door was shut and locked. He heard the policeman walk back down the corridor.
He tried to get a grip on his horror by sourcing it. What was it? Where did the panic come from? Of course! It was the smell of urine, the stench that had brought him round the first night in the villa in Prague. It was a smell he detested. He’d known it was his smell and that he must have pissed his pants while unconscious. And that was just at the beginning. There were many days more of him lying in his own filth, being woken up with a bucket of cold water and hauled into a room where a terrible intimacy was begun between him and his nameless torturer. For most of the time he was blindfolded and could not see who was in the room. But he learned by the echoes and the scuffling and the sniggering to count the number of men. Sometimes three or four; other times, just one. The man who spoke to him in the dark with that soft, cracked smoker’s voice, and went over and over the past, insisting on more and more detail and, when Harland couldn’t supply it, accusing him of lying and telling him he would be punished. Lying? About what? Things Harland didn’t know. Things he couldn’t know about because he simply hadn’t been told, wasn’t involved in this or that operation, or was somewhere else at the time.
He had worked Harland with a dedication that was senseless because all about them – although Harland didn’t know to what extent – Eastern Europe was rising up against the communist regimes. Yet in the dilapidated villa and its fetid cellars remained a corner of Stalinist Russia. Seventy years of oppression and cruelty was channelled by the torturer into Harland’s nerve endings.
It was the intimacy that Harland could not stand. Each day would start with the man hurting him. Then there would be talk, the offer of water or sometimes coffee, and the torturer would pass the time of day with him, discussing such bizarre topics as boar hunting in the Carpathians or the plum brandy to be had in Yugoslavia. He affected to be a man of the world, a man of taste with many high standards. Nothing was ever good enough for this connoisseur. As he talked, he tempted Harland into a man-to-man intimacy, in which Harland was required to give his opinion on the coldness of English women, the myth of French passion, the superiority of Russian hockey players and slovenliness of the Poles, the Turks and the gypsies, all of whom the man loathed heartily.
There was no question of Harland not responding because it would only advance the moment when the man hurt him again. His sole strategy was to delay being hurt. For the longer he put him off, the longer he would survive and the greater the chance of his being rescued. So he talked to the man, gave his all to the discussion. That involved relating to him, reacting genuinely to what he was saying, as though he was having a normal conversation and was not bound in a chair or stretched across a table, stinking of his own urine. It took all his energy to find ways of delaying that moment. But, of course, the torturer knew what he was up to. He let it be known – quite subtly – that he interpreted these ingenious diversions of Harland’s as a peculiar confirmation of his own power: only he could drive this Englishman to argue that a salmon caught on a fly rather than a spinner tasted better, while that Englishman’s body cried out from five hours of being bound on the stone floor.
As the day wore on the Russian would rib him about each red herring, like a parent indulging a child who is trying to avoid its bedtime. Then quite suddenly he would turn on Harland. It was back to business, he would say. He would start with his questions about an operation that Harland had never heard of or a piece of intelligence which had been fed up the line and had proved inaccurate. Why? Who? When? What motive? Harland was being called to account for everything he’d done, indeed for the entire Western intelligence effort over the past fifteen years. That was perhaps the only hint the man gave that he understood what had happened when the Berlin Wall fell. His world was over and now he was conducting a final inquiry. An inquisition. But it was also plain that he was exacting revenge. For what? The collapse of the communist system? The superiority of Harland’s side? The end of his power and prospects?
Harland pathetically attempted to make a stab at the right solution and work it into a reassuring message during the conversation, but never to any avail. Sometimes the man would break into song or speak some impromptu doggerel, which wove Harland’s observation into rhyme. Harland knew the man was watching his expression and he tried – oh, so very desperately – to hide his revulsion.
Before the man started hurting him again with the electrodes or the hot iron or the belts and clubs and needles, he would get very close to Harland, squatting or sometimes even lying on the floor beside him, and Harland would smell his breath and his aftershave and sense the slight aroma of a leather coat or a woollen jersey. Not once did he see the man’s face for he always made sure that Harland was bound and blindfolded before he entered the room. He had seen the others though, the thugs who were called upon to beat him up, or do the lifting when the torturer wanted Harland stretched across a barrel or hung from a beam in the cellar. Even though he never laid eyes on him, he knew this man.
The truth was that he had succumbed. The terrifying, faceless presence had got to him. In his
rare conscious moments in his cell he reasoned to himself that he was only trying to survive, but he understood that he had put himself in the position of the supplicant. Like a lover almost, he was dependent on the torturer’s approval, alert to his whims and moods, desperate to please, but always knowing that in the end he would be hurt. It was intimacy of a truly demonic kind and it had left Harland with a peculiar terror. To him closeness was torture, except possibly in his relationship with Harriet. Somehow that had survived.
These memories ran unchecked through Harland’s mind for the first time in the decade since he had taken a cab to a quiet North London street and talked to a very good woman about his torture. She had set up a discreet outfit for victims of torture like himself and he had gone on a doctor’s recommendation, almost with the sense that he had something to confess. Torture, he was surprised to learn, had left him with a sense of guilt, just as severe bereavement can cause feelings of shame. The damage done is so great and particular that the mind can only express itself through one or other of the more common human emotions. He had returned many times to the woman who just listened and allowed him to voice the most dreadful thoughts. After six months or so he picked himself up and found himself a job. He never saw her again and never mentioned it to himself again, at least not in a way that would resurrect the images that played in his blindfolded mind all those years ago.
He thought of that woman now. She was the very antithesis of his torturer which was why it had been strangely difficult for him to talk to her on the terms and with the intimacy that he’d used in the villa. He had explained the irony and she had nodded and said she understood. He kept her face before him as he lay on the bed in the police cell and watched his hands shaking from what seemed like a very great distance indeed.
He noted that his detachment had come back again, the same part of him that had coolly advised that he was about to die in the East River. But now there was another message, an odd phrase that repeated itself in his head. ‘Blank out. Blank out. Blank out.’ He wanted blankness and the end of his terror.
Some time later that night he was aware of the cell door opening. In the doorway stood a man in a silvery blue suit who was rhythmically brushing the stubble on the top of his head. Harland scrutinised him with ultra clarity. A short man, a bustling man, carrying a briefcase, an overcoat and small black astrakhan hat.
‘This won’t do at all,’ said the man several times. ‘Look at him, for heaven’s sake. When was he last checked?’
He knelt down by Harland’s side. ‘My name is Leo Costigan. I’m your solicitor. I’m going to get you out of here as soon as possible. These bastards will pay for this.’
Harland took in the ashen face of the constable who had locked him up.
‘Mr Harland?’ said the lawyer, shaking Harland’s good shoulder. ‘Mr Harland!’ Then he turned to the policeman. ‘This man is in shock. Don’t just stand there. Get a doctor, you idiot!’
The policeman ran down the corridor.
‘It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, Mr Harland. Can you hear me? I’m your lawyer, Leo Costigan.’
He stopped speaking and put a hand to Harland’s forehead and stroked it. For some reason Harland could not reply.
The officer returned with a uniformed sergeant and Navratt, whose rheumy-eyed indifference had been replaced by a look of pure panic.
‘It is plain that this man has suffered a nervous collapse while in your care,’ said Costigan. ‘I do not want him moved until the doctor has assessed his condition. You can all see that he has been allowed to wet himself and that his hands are shaking. He is unable to focus and cannot react. You lot are looking at the end of your careers. I don’t suppose any of you were aware that this man is the personal representative of the Secretary-General of the United Nations?’ He looked up at the three policemen. ‘No, I didn’t think so.’
Harland smiled inwardly. Costigan was doing a grand job. Harriet had been right about him – a good chap, a little terrier.
It was strange how he tried to talk but nothing happened. He was dimly reminded of the effect of a computer virus: the words seemed to move very slowly to the front of his mind and then disintegrate before his eyes. Still, inside he knew he was okay. He had come through and he was intact. He just needed sleep. That was all.
15
TWO HALVES OF A DOLLAR BILL
For the next few days no one was allowed to bother Harland. A visit from the family doctor confirmed the police doctor’s view that he’d suffered a delayed reaction from the twin traumas of the air crash and the shooting. His problems had been compounded by lack of sleep. Harland went along with the diagnosis, but he knew very well that the shock to his system predated both these events by a long time. He was prescribed sleeping pills and a course of what the doctor described as mood improvers. He ignored the second bottle and instead buried himself in a biography of an aviation pioneer and watched old films on television with Harriet’s children.
There was also a visit from Leo Costigan, who told him that the police had no intention of pursuing the case against him. He was pressing for an inquiry and had already made representation with the Police Complaints Authority. Harland asked him to inquire about Lars Edberg’s possessions. Since Edberg was alive, he had every right to them. More important, a clue to his interests might be in that bag: the sort of music that might help wake him from the coma. Harland mentioned this because it had occurred to him that there was a lot in the bag that might eventually fall into Vigo’s hands, in particular Eva’s old ID cards. Costigan said he would do what he could but was doubtful since the bag would almost certainly be regarded by the police as relevant to Tomas’s identity.
By Monday evening he began to feel himself again. He lay on a couch in the conservatory thinking how he was going to find Eva. It wouldn’t be easy, especially as Tomas had never given him any hint of her whereabouts or the name she was using. If he was to go to the Czech Republic, he would have to think very carefully about his departure and then his means of search. Suddenly he thought of Cuth Avocet – The Bird – and Macy Harp. He couldn’t think of anyone who knew Prague better. He’d put money on the fact that The Bird still resided at a pleasant flint farmhouse between Lambourne and Newbury, where his wife ran a stud farm. And if The Bird was still there, Macy Harp would not be far away.
Late next morning Harland asked Robin if he could spend some time at his office. He said he felt like getting out of the house and he needed to make some phone calls. They drove together in Robin’s Alvis to the White Bosey Cane building, just off Charlotte Street. Robin went into a large, sparse office where there was an exercise machine and a flat-screen TV, leaving Harland in the care of a whey-faced woman in her twenties named Cary who looked as though she suffered from multiple allergies. He explained that he wanted a private office, a phone and an Internet connection. She had no difficulty in finding somewhere since most of the agency had taken the week off. That was just what Harland needed – space to himself and the certainty that no one would be listening to his calls.
He took out some notes he’d made the night before. The first name on it was Sara Hezemanns’, Griswald’s assistant in The Hague. He dialled her direct line and got through straight away.
‘Are you alone?’ he asked her.
‘Yes, there are many people on holidays,’ she said. ‘Why did you not call before? I waited two evenings last week.’ She sounded put out and slightly disappointed, which Harland took as a good sign because it meant she wanted to talk.
‘I’m sorry, I was never near a phone at the right moment. But, believe me, I really do need to speak to you about Alan’s last investigation.’ He paused to read his notes. ‘Tell me – did we discuss Luc Bézier?’
‘We touched on him.’
‘I have since read all the papers you sent to Mr Griswald. It’s obvious that the man mentioned as being present in Bosnia in July 1995 was the subject of Alan’s interest. He is not identified in any of the witness st
atements but I assume he is the individual that Bézier’s group had been sent to Serbia to kidnap. That means he was under an indictment from the War Crimes Tribunal. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I understand from Colonel Bertrand Bézier, that’s Luc Bézier’s father, who I visited in France last week, that his name was Lipnik. I don’t have a first name.’
‘His name is Viktor Lipnik and, yes, it is true that he was the subject of a secret indictment. We believed it would be better if he did not know he was being investigated.’
‘But he did know about the indictment.’
‘Probably.’
‘And that was all that was dropped when he was reported to have been killed. You see, Luc Bézier was the witness to the shooting at the hotel. I assume the report was filed to SFOR – that’s the NATO commanders in Bosnia – that he’d seen Lipnik killed. I also assume there was no further investigation.’ He stopped and briefly imagined Sara Hezemanns – an earnest, bespectacled blonde with an unswerving sense of mission. ‘Look, Sara – can I call you that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Sara, I must tell you that I do have authority to pursue this matter on behalf of the UN. But I should also warn you that you may feel that my questions compromise your loyalties. If that is the case, just say you can’t answer. Please don’t hide things from me.’
‘Go ahead,’ she said.
‘I suspect that Alan Griswald was working towards a second indictment of Viktor Lipnik, but that he was coming up against some resistance. People were either too sceptical about him still being alive or were motivated to obstruct Alan. If I read his actions right, he was gathering conclusive evidence that Lipnik was still alive, proof that no one could rebut?’
‘Rebut?’
‘Proof that no one could reject.’
‘Oh, he had this proof,’ she said. ‘He was taking it to Washington and New York to show people. Luc Bézier was his proof. Monsieur Bézier saw Lipnik in Vienna.’