by Henry Porter
Harland closed his eyes to assemble his little knowledge of using the sun as an aid to orientation. At midday a shadow cast by a vertical object would give a reading for north since the sun was in the south. As the afternoon wore on the shadows would swing to the right and, using the principle of the sundial, it would be possible to gauge the time and also to get a bearing between zero and ninety degrees. The further the sun went west, the more the shadows would veer to the east and a bearing of ninety degrees. He remembered that the season had to be taken into account in such a calculation but since the picture was dated to just over three weeks after the summer solstice of 21 June, he assumed that variation would not be great.
He was unsure of his geometry and decided to make a copy of the picture on Harriet’s printer. Then he began to trace a series of lines fanning out from a point in the middle of the bottom of the frame. It was all very hit and miss, but after borrowing a protractor from his nephew’s geometry case he estimated that the shadows were pointed at a bearing of between 20 and 25 degrees. That put the V-shaped incision in the range at a bearing of 15 degrees and the large peak at a few degrees east of due north – say 355 degrees. If he could get the profile of the mountain range identified, he’d be able to mark out a rough area where the massacre had taken place. And that process might be refined by estimating the distance between the camera and the mountain range – not, perhaps, a problem for a surveyor – and the safe assumption that this spot was probably close to a road or track because of the inconvenience involved in moving a bulldozer over a lot of rough terrain.
He called up the other picture and squared off sections that he wanted to examine more closely. The screen filled with the still life of the table – a German-language newspaper dated 29 May 1998, the tray of drinks which included a bottle of Pernod, Martini, whisky of an identifiable brand and various mixers. Harland focused on the papers in front of the drinks tray. They were in German and appeared to be some kind of report. The type was too small to read from the screen, but he picked up a couple of signatures at the bottom of one sheet and with greater magnification these could be deciphered.
He went back to the whole frame and tried to see what else might lie there. Way off in the background were two men in dark suits, standing with their hands clasped in front of them in the manner of silent heavies the world over. The landscape was rolling rather than mountainous, and it was possible to make out pastures and clumps of pine trees. It could be anywhere, thought Harland. There was countryside like this all over the Balkans and Central Europe but, given the newspaper, he’d bet on Austria or Germany.
Finally he addressed Viktor Lipnik, enlarging him to fill the whole screen. The three-quarter view gave him much more sense of Lipnik than the profile in the first picture. He had a rather long face with a nose that was slightly hooked at the end, a feature enhanced by the angle of his rather thin nostrils. His hair was straight and dark – perhaps dyed? – and he had a light beard which was only visible above his lip. All things considered it was not an unpleasant face.
Harland stared at the whole picture. He was aware of something speaking to him. It wasn’t the sense of Eastern European style in the sheen of his suit, the angle of the shirt collar, the Windsor-knotted tie. Nor was it the suspicion that Viktor Lipnik had invested in cosmetic surgery, evidenced by a vertical scar in front of one of his ears. It was his Rolex watch – exactly the same chunky symbol of wealth that he’d been surprised to see on Tomas’s arm in the first picture. He knew that Tomas had not worn it on the occasions that they met.
He printed two fresh copies of the pictures and two sets of the details he had examined, and placed them in envelopes. As he dialled Frank Ollins’s mobile number, he let his eyes play over the photograph. As usual Ollins picked up immediately.
‘Did you find anything in that material?’ asked Harland.
‘Not yet.’ Ollins was unfazed by Harland’s lack of greeting. ‘The people who were looking at it haven’t come back to me.’
‘Which people were dealing with it? You see, some might regard this material as poison and its bearer as a national security risk.
‘Whoever you’re talking about isn’t going to get his hands on it. This is an FBI investigation into a very serious crime. We won’t swerve from the completion of this inquiry, I can promise you that.’ Harland was taken aback by this rather formal statement. Perhaps Ollins was speaking for the benefit of others.
‘Good,’ said Harland, thinking of that audience. ‘Of course, anyone interested in suppressing this evidence would need to know that it’s possible to place the information on the Web or to give it to newspapers. At this time of year they’re always short of news.’
‘So what did you find?’
‘Two pictures of a man named Lipnik, who was indicted as a war criminal before he was killed off in an elaborately staged assassination. The pictures prove that Lipnik is alive and that he took part in a massacre of some scale. This man was the subject of Griswald’s last inquiry and must be regarded as a suspect in the Falcon’s crash.’
‘What are you going to do with the pictures?’
‘Send them to the Secretary-General’s office.’
‘Not before you give them to me as per our agreement, right?’
This was entirely within Harland’s plan, but he wanted Ollins to know that he was doing him a favour.
‘Why don’t you tell me a bit more about the crash? What did you mean by the questions you asked me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ollins resolutely. ‘I can’t say more.’
‘Well, tell me whether you’ll be keeping the Secretary-General informed on developments.’
There was a pause.
‘Yes,’ said Ollins. ‘Look, to get back to our agreement. We said that whoever decoded the material first would send it to the other. That’s what you agreed. Are you welching?’
‘No, I’ll send it in an attachment this evening using the same procedure as before.’ Harland sounded reluctant but he knew that he was only too happy to pass the pictures to the FBI. The pictures represented power, but it was not the kind of power that needed to be hoarded.
They said goodbye, exchanging a sardonic New Year’s greeting.
The next call was to Jaidi’s office, which was still manned. He told the woman on the other end that he would be sending a two-page memorandum to the Secretary-General and that he would need a fax number or e-mail address that would ensure Jaidi read it the next morning. He stressed the need for utter secrecy and speed. She gave him a fax number in Davos, Switzerland where Jaidi had improbably holed up for a few days with his Swedish-born wife and child.
He slowly replaced the phone, already in the act of composition. But his thoughts were interrupted by Harriet telling him that there were just ten minutes to go before midnight. They were opening champagne.
Harland got downstairs to find Robin sprawled almost horizontal, his long legs stretched in front of him. He smiled comfortably at Harland.
‘So what’ve you been up to, Bobby? Haven’t really had a chance to ask since you vanished from my office yesterday.’
Harriet looked on edge, as though she guessed he’d discovered something important.
‘Oh, this and that,’ he said, as pleasantly as he could. Whatever Robin’s deficiencies of intellect, he was certainly a good host. He deserved politeness. The strokes of Big Ben came. They embraced, Harland enduring a longer than usual hug from his brother-in-law.
The phone went. It was Philip Smith-Canon breaking the news that Tomas had emerged from his coma. He had been awake for twenty-five minutes. He was very weak and there were problems with muscle spasm. They would be working on this in the next few days.
Harland hung up and told them.
‘Well, that’s some good news to start the year off with,’ said Robin.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Harriet.
18
VIGO’S MAP
After a while Harriet and Robin went upstairs.
Harland returned to the little office to begin a memorandum for Jaidi. It was a laconic affair which, if anything, underplayed the sabotage theory, although he did mention that the FBI had made unspecified discoveries concerning the electronics systems of the plane. The rest concerned the pictures of Lipnik whom he assumed was the man that Jaidi referred to as the ‘quantum enemy’. He asked the Secretary-General to expand on his phrase for, as far as he knew, Lipnik had only one other identity – the one assumed after the staged assassination. He gave a hint or two about the evidence to be gleaned from a close examination of both pictures. He ended the note by saying that he was continuing his inquiries in Eastern Europe. He signed off in the hope that they would speak soon. He sent the e-mail with the photographs in an attachment, knowing that Jaidi would not concern himself with the identity of the young soldier in the background of the earlier picture.
As he was clearing up and preparing to go to bed, Harriet slipped into the office and perched, in an ancient woollen dressing-gown, on the desk beside him. Her face was scrubbed clean of make-up and glistened with moisturiser.
‘Okay,’ she said in a bad American accent, ‘quit stalling on me. What’ve you got?’
‘A lot,’ he said glumly, and withdrew one of the prints from the envelope and handed it to her. ‘That was taken in Bosnia. It’s the scene of a massacre. You can see Tomas in the background.’
Harriet let out a gasp. ‘God! How on earth did you get this?’
‘Griswald was carrying it on the plane. His interest was in the man in the foreground. That has to be Lipnik.’
‘So everything does connect. What are you going to do now?’
‘I’m going to go to Prague to try to trace Tomas’s mother. It’s essential that she’s found to help communicate with him. But she must also be able to explain how he came to be in Bosnia when he was just twenty years old.’
‘Who have you showed these pictures to?’
‘So far the FBI and Jaidi. Both within the last hour or so.’
‘I see.’ She paused. ‘Lipnik could reasonably assume that they were no longer in existence. After all, they took the mini-disc from you in the UN and wouldn’t have expected you to have copied it. But that doesn’t explain why Tomas was hunted down like that. It can’t have been because he was witness to that thing in Bosnia because they would have found him before. So why now? What’s the connection?
‘Maybe Tomas knew Lipnik was alive.’ Harland didn’t sound very convincing to himself. He went on to tell her about his afternoon with the man from GCHQ.
‘So the connection could be something to do with these codes.’
‘Maybe.’
‘So that means you’re still much in danger?’
‘I think not. But who knows? I haven’t got to the bottom of this thing.’
‘And you’re going to Prague.’
This came out like an accusation. She knew about the last time, not the details of course, but she saw him in hospital only a few days after The Bird and Macy had delivered him there. She sighed heavily and rubbed her hands together. There were tears of anger and frustration in her eyes. Harland started to say that he had to go.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t you think that you’ve run out of lives, Bobby? I mean, let’s face it, you came back from the police station the other night in a terrible state. I know what caused it. So do you. You had a flashback. And now you’re going back to Prague. What do you think will happen? Surely you can trace this woman and simply telephone her?’
‘It’s not that easy. I’ll need to look at some old files there.’
She pressed her hands together and interlocked her fingers. ‘You’re a bastard to cause me so much worry. I hope you know that.’
He said nothing.
‘I mean it, Bobby. You’re a bastard.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘I really am sorry. But I’m stuck in the middle of this thing. I can’t go back. I have to go forward.’
‘Well … you’ll need the things I’ve been holding for you. I always knew they’d be useful one day.’
She pushed him gently out of the way with her forearm, knelt down to the bottom drawer of a cupboard and pulled out a red petty-cash box.
‘You remember you had me keep everything up to date when you were with SIS?’ She looked at him despairingly. ‘You know – your covers! You got me to maintain these bloody false identities and make sure there was activity in your accounts while you were away.’
Of course Harland remembered. From the moment he entered Century House on the Intelligence Officer’s New Entry Course, he was taught how to build and maintain cover. In his time at SIS he had five or six. Each cover usually – but not always – included a false passport, a driving licence, a cheque guarantee card and one or two credit cards. It was drummed into them from the very first that these identities must have ‘hinterland’, by which it was meant a life that could be inferred from membership cards, receipts in the name of the cover, letters and so forth. It was advisable to have an ACA – an Alias Cover Address – where correspondence could be sent and someone would vouch for you if inquiries were made.
Harland was allocated a man in Wimbledon, a retired SIS officer who had settled down with a Dutch widow ten years his junior. His name was Jeavons. For a time the relationship worked well: Harland gained invaluable tips on trade-craft.
But it was a laborious business, keeping Jeavons sweet and making sure that there was enough convincing ‘wallet litter’ for the identities he used. Towards the end of Harland’s time at SIS, Jeavons lost interest and his wife took over the running of Harland’s affairs. But then Mrs Jeavons started to invent reasons for Harland to visit her, usually when her husband was out. It was plain that he had to go to bed with her, or move cover address. He opted for the latter and asked Harriet to manage things while he found someone new. It wasn’t ideal but she had married and got a new name and as ever had inexhaustible energy.
By this time he had two main covers – Charles Suarez, a construction engineer from the British community in Buenos Aires, and Tristan O’Donnell, a salesman from County Cork. Both possessed false passports from the country of origin, arranged by SIS in the days when these things were less closely monitored. His colleagues who had been issued documentation by the passport office in Petty France were required to lodge them at Century House when they were not being used. But nobody seemed to mind the abuse of a foreign passport and Harland had been allowed to keep his.
Into Harriet’s safekeeping also went the two bank accounts, one held at Coutts in the Strand and the other at the Royal Bank of Scotland in Victoria Street. Over the years, Harland had achieved a degree of realistic churn in the two accounts, using them occasionally to bank money of his own or pay off his and Louise’s household bills. From these two accounts were also paid magazine subscriptions, video library fees, annual donations to Amnesty International, Shelter and The Salmon and Trout Association. In the days when he needed the services of O’Donnell and Charles Suarez he used in spare moments to write off job applications in either name so that he would have recent letters addressed to him to keep in a briefcase.
In the late autumn of 1989, when Harland travelled as an ‘illegal’ to Prague, he went without the protection of his own diplomatic passport and instead became Charles Suarez. This had been his own decision because he didn’t want his name turning up on an immigration or customs list when he crossed from East Germany to Czechoslovakia. With his arrest, the usefulness of Charles Suarez and his carefully nurtured interests and ambitions ended. In fact, he never again saw the passport or the briefcase containing his reply from a construction firm in Reading. When he resigned from the service a few months later, nobody thought to ask him about any other identities he had cultivated alongside Suarez’s.
Harriet unlocked the box with a key she took from the desk, and fished inside. There were bank statements, a driving licence, a video card and membership to a club in Mayfair called the Regency Rooms.
‘Hal,’ he said, ‘the passport must be out of date. It’s a decade or more since I looked at this stuff.’
‘Nope,’ she said, pulling a pristine EU passport from a brown envelope. ‘In a bored moment I applied for a new one to see what would happen and they sent this back without batting an eyelid. Anyway, I somehow didn’t want Tris to turn his toes up quite yet. Look, there’s you.’ She showed him the picture. ‘Not bad. You gave me a whole strip of photos for visas. Don’t you remember?’
Harland did vaguely remember. ‘And I suppose the driving licence is current and clean?’
‘What did you expect?’
He picked up some bank statements and looked at a recent sheet for 1999. His eyes settled on a column in the right. ‘Hal! This was in credit twenty-five thousand pounds last year. Where did this come from?’
‘That’s why I didn’t want Tris to die,’ she said with a giggle. ‘He’s been quite a success on the stock market. In fact Tris is currently in the black to the tune of forty-one thousand pounds.’ She handed him the latest bank statement.
‘Jesus, is this your money?’
‘Yes, it’s all completely legitimate. I just wanted to keep certain transactions separate. Tris has two credit cards – banks kept on offering him gold, platinum and what have you, so he accepted. Last winter he paid for us all to go to Antigua, first class.’ She handed him all the papers. ‘It’s all completely kosher. If you have to go to Prague again, you can go as Tristan O’Donnell.’
‘You know Prague’s a different place now.’ He moved to touch the top of her hand but withdrew at the last moment. ‘They’re members of NATO. They’re officially part of the West. The Czechs are a civilised people and all anybody wants to do is buy Gap and eat McDonald’s.’
‘Semi-West! I read the papers. Half the corruption scandals in East Europe are traced back to Prague and Budapest. Look, I just don’t want you to be hurt – that’s all.’ She looked at him with an utterly vulnerable expression. He muttered some reassurance but knew he was pushing her away.