Patriots

by Kevin Doherty

  ‘My dear, you got yourself into this when you climbed into bed with Edmund Knight. That being the case, I have no power to get you “out” on the terms which you no doubt mean. At this point you have only one way out and I’m not at all sure what you would do afterwards.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘It means, after leaving the service I’m not sure how you would survive.’ He turned to look at her. ‘After all, you have been indiscreet, to say the least. Life could be such a trial if you left under the wrong circumstances.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘By no means. Merely reminding you of your obligations. I see I’m alarming you. I mustn’t go on. I will say this much, however: I will overlook this conversation. I advise you to do likewise. I would also remind you that it would be unwise of you ever to mention our … arrangement to anyone.’

  ‘You mean to Knight.’

  For a moment Gaunt had that faraway air again, as if their conversation wasn’t really as important to him as he would have her believe.

  ‘Not to Knight, not to anyone,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens.’

  With that, he muttered goodnight and manoeuvred himself out of the car. He was waiting in the hotel doorway when she roared past onto Berkeley Street. She only caught a glimpse of him, didn’t want him to see her looking, and just gained an overall impression of his dark figure standing there, hands in pockets, sharp elbows tucked in against his sides.

  It was only when she was driving along Knightsbridge, still trembling as her mind went over the abortive encounter in random snatches, that she became convinced that he had been smiling.

  *

  In the house at Stratfield Saye, Sumner took Knight’s call.

  ‘Joss Franklyn’s been shot,’ Knight told him. ‘He’s dead.’

  There was a silence, then Sumner whispered, ‘How did it happen?’

  Knight ignored Sumner’s question.

  ‘Where’s Kunaev?’ he demanded.

  ‘Tucked up in bed, I hope.’

  ‘Tell security to keep on their toes. Joss’s death might have nothing to do with Kunaev but who the hell knows.’

  ‘Spetznaz?’

  ‘It’s possible. What did Kunaev have to say for himself? Did you get anywhere?’

  Still stunned by the news about Franklyn, Sumner spilled out an account of the debrief.

  *

  After the call, Knight returned to the interview room in Bow Street police station to wait for whoever wanted to talk to him next.

  ‘Fingerprints,’ he said quietly to the room’s bare walls.

  *

  Two hours had passed.

  ‘Why aren’t you asleep?’ Anna whispered.

  Viktor rolled over on his side to face her. It was too dark to see but he could feel her breath on his cheek.

  ‘I could ask the same of you,’ he whispered.

  ‘Blame your tossing and turning.’ She snuggled closer and sighed. ‘You lecture me to be strong and now look at you. What are you worrying about? Were they difficult with you tonight?’

  ‘No. It went the way I wanted.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Tomorrow the shop will be empty.’

  ‘Don’t talk in riddles, Viktor. We have no money to go shopping.’

  ‘It’s I who am the shopkeeper. What I sell is information. But I’ve had to do what no wise shopkeeper should – I’ve given my goods away on credit. I had no choice. That’s how it works. Tomorrow I hand over the last thing on my shelves. After that, they’re empty. No more avoska, even.’

  ‘You have to hope your customers pay up.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘I told you – you’ve made a sad world, you and that so-important Mr Edmund Knight.’

  ‘Not just us, Anna. Not us.’

  Her fingers touched his brow, like cool cotton soothing hot skin. He closed his eyes and tried to picture a small boy growing to be a man in a free country; it wasn’t as easy as it used to be.

  31

  In the morning, bleary eyed and unshaven, his head throbbing from lack of sleep, Knight drove straight from Bow Street to Berkshire. No detour to Eva’s. And no question of going to Curzon Street.

  He was at the end of his road when he saw the Range Rover turning into his drive. He stopped the car and drove back to the village. He tried to think but his mind was in chaos.

  He passed the dairy and the shops, saw a parking space and thought about pulling in. Indicated, at the last moment changed his mind and carried on. He did the same thing again at the pub by the green: to the irritation of the cars behind him, who’d put up with his first indecision. One of them honked and he turned down the side road skirting the green, to get out of their way.

  He was leaving the village now, on the far side from his home. The cottages and shops were behind him and there were only the occasional lanes and hedges of the larger houses on either side. He knew them all. Not who lived in them, often not even what the houses looked like, tucked out of sight as many of them were. But he knew the shape of the road, the pattern of its trees and bends; all was imprinted on his mind like the furniture of a familiar room in darkness.

  But it felt as if he was driving through an alien land. The sky seemed cracked in every leafless branch.

  The village surgery came in sight. He glanced into the parking area as he passed. The morning surgery was under way; six or seven cars were parked by the fence and people went in and out of the surgery entrance. He stopped at the next side road, turned and drove back, and drew into the surgery parking area. There was a space at the far corner and he pulled into it and switched off his engine.

  Time passed. An hour perhaps. No one bothered him and that was all he wanted. Perhaps he dozed off, like an animal seized by a predator; or perhaps his mind went to the no man’s land where sleep and wakefulness shaded into one another.

  He started, and looked about him sharply. The flux of people and cars had ceased. Now there was only one other car besides his own. He studied it more closely and made out the Doctor sticker in its front window.

  Morning surgery had closed. Soon the doctor would be off on his visiting rounds. Knight stared at the car again and drove back to his own side of the village, looking hard at every car he met.

  There was no movement in the vicinity of his driveway, but when he walked close enough to peer along the hedging that edged it, he saw that the Range Rover was still there. No visitor would wait for that long. No normal visitor.

  He hurried back to his car. There was only one place he could think of to go.

  The cattle grid made his teeth judder as the car rattled over it. He drove straight up past the chapel and followed the road over the brow of the hill and down to the central block of the convent.

  The secretary’s office was on the left off the front hall. The door was open, so he walked in and waited for the matronly woman behind the counter to pause in her typing. After a moment she looked at him to show that she was ready for his enquiry.

  ‘I’m looking for Sister Marie-Thérèse,’ he said. ‘Do you know where I can find her?’

  The woman smiled; her world was pleasant and orderly. ‘Let’s see if she’s in a class.’

  She rose and consulted a large chart that covered most of the width of the wall by her desk. It logged all the school forms by class and day of the week. She began running her finger down the Tuesday columns. On the fifth or six column she said ‘Aha,’ and kept her finger in position while she glanced at the wall clock above the chart. Then she turned back to him and told him where to go.

  He dawdled at the noticeboards until the bell went, and arrived at classroom C3 just as it was emptying. Twenty or so girls, thirteen-year-olds, filed out and split up to go their different ways. They were well behaved and those who noticed him nodded a respectful greeting.

  Marie-Thérèse was cleaning the blackboard when he went into the room and closed the door. He coughed quietly to ca
tch her attention.

  ‘Good gracious!’ she said. ‘Mr Knight – you do have a habit of popping up on me in unexpected places.’

  She set the duster aside and rubbed chalk off her fingers. The sunlight glinted on her spectacles as she glanced down to flick more dust off her grey gown.

  ‘I didn’t mean to startle you, Sister.’

  She looked up and smiled at him, waiting politely for whatever he wanted to say next.

  He couldn’t hold her gaze. ‘I’ve come to ask you for something.’

  She began packing her books into the leather satchel on her table. ‘Ask away.’ She finished packing and eased herself stiffly into a chair behind one of the students’ tables, gesturing for him to do the same.

  He remained standing. ‘I need your help.’

  She joined her hands on the table and made a slight movement with them as if she’d gathered as much. ‘Good. You’ve given us plenty, it’ll be a chance for us to pay a little back. Would it be spiritual help you’re looking for?’

  ‘My priority at the moment is more temporal.’

  She smiled and made the little hand movement again. ‘I don’t recall Our Lord turning away from those that needed temporal help. Tell me what you need.’

  He prowled uneasily towards the window and back again before answering. ‘Somewhere to stay.’

  ‘I see.’ She pondered for a minute. ‘Is there something the matter with your house?’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘The house is fine. I just need to … get away for a while.’

  She leant slightly forward, her head tilted to one side like a knowing little bird, and stared hard at him. He felt as if she were opening him up and looking inside.

  ‘Get away?’ she repeated. ‘There’s no retreats on at the minute, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s not what I had in mind.’

  Her lips drew into a thin line. She sat upright again; there was a sadness in her face now.

  ‘Are you asking for sanctuary?’ she whispered.

  ‘If that’s what I should call it.’

  She didn’t move or speak for a moment. He heard the sound of hurried footsteps drawing nearer along the corridor outside, then someone strode past the door and the footsteps faded away.

  ‘What kind of trouble are you in?’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘It’s the only time people come looking for sanctuary.’

  He paced again towards the window. ‘I won’t burden you, Sister. I’m asking enough as it is. If you haven’t got somewhere, it doesn’t matter. I’ll find somewhere else.

  ‘Where?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll find somewhere.’

  The wise head tilted again. ‘You haven’t got anywhere else. You wouldn’t be coming to me if there was somewhere else.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘All right, Mr Knight. Forgive my probing. It’s all very well for God – he knows what terms he’s doing business on. But the rest of us have to check things out a little. Now let me see.’ She unclasped her hands and put them in her lap, palms down. ‘We have the retreat house. That’d be the best place. As I said, it’s not being used at the moment.’ She paused before adding softly, ‘You’d be out of harm’s reach there.’

  ‘Harm’s reach?’

  She shifted the angle of her head fractionally; the lenses of her spectacles flashed sunlight at him so that he couldn’t see her eyes any longer. ‘Just an expression, Mr Knight. Now, does the retreat house sound all right to you?’

  ‘It sounds just fine.’

  She rose to her feet and became businesslike. ‘It’s well away from the school and the playing fields, so no one will see you there. No one will bother you.’

  All he ever wanted.

  ‘I’ll have to speak to the Mother Superior, of course. But I’m sure she’ll agree. I’ll take you there in the meantime and you can settle in. Are you here by car? It’s a long walk. For me anyway. Have you brought any belongings?’

  ‘What I’m standing up in.’

  ‘We’ll get you a few things, if you’re not fussy. Let’s be going then. I’ll just have time to talk to the Mother Superior before my next class.’

  He took the weighty satchel from her and followed her out.

  *

  It was as much as the two cars that had driven in from Stratfield Saye could do to keep in view of one another. Sumner couldn’t recall seeing the London traffic so bad in years.

  ‘Relax,’ Parrish told him as they crawled towards Hyde Park Corner. ‘What do you think the Soviets might do – pick him up by helicopter from the middle of this lot? He won’t be making a break for it either – we’ve got his wife and kid, remember.’

  In the same way as his own people had had his father as a guarantee, thought Sumner. Aloud he said: ‘Why should he want to make a break? He came to us of his own free will.’

  ‘They always have second thoughts,’ said Parrish.

  Sumner forced the Citroën into a gap that made Parrish wince, and craned his neck to look for the blue Ford with Viktor and the two security men aboard. He caught a glimpse of it as it slipped between a bus and a brewery truck at the foot of Park Lane.

  ‘Got you,’ he breathed, and put his foot down.

  Parrish closed his eyes as the tail of the truck passed within inches of his window.

  ‘Nothing on the news this morning about Joss Franklyn,’ he said when he’d regained his equilibrium.

  ‘They won’t let the media say anything.’

  As they came onto the straight the Ford filtered to the right at the slip road intersection and positioned itself in the middle carriageway, facing Mayfair.

  A suspicion crept into Sumner’s mind; it grew to a certainty and he smacked the steering wheel.

  ‘The cheeky sod,’ he exclaimed. ‘Look.’

  By now Parrish was watching the car as well. He nodded as he took in its location and understanding dawned.

  ‘Mount Street. Our own backyard.’

  Sure enough, when the lights changed, the blue Ford swung back down Park Lane and took the first left. Sumner lane-hopped ruthlessly and was at last able to close the gap.

  There was no possibility of parking legally in the busy street so the two cars wasted no time trying. Instead they double-parked bumper to bumper right outside the post office and put on their hazard warning lights.

  The security men climbed out of the Ford and hemmed Viktor in. Parrish and Sumner joined them and all five made their way into the post office. Inside, they almost doubled the size of the queue.

  ‘Jump the queue, for God’s sake. Over there.’ Parrish caught the arm of one of the security officers and indicated the parcel counter across from the door, where a clerk was finishing with someone. ‘He’ll do – persuade him.’

  The clerk looked askance as the two burly men and Viktor approached together. He listened to what one of the security men had to say, looked at Viktor’s passport when it was passed under the glass, and went off through a door at the rear of his enclosure. A minute later he reappeared with a package wrapped in brown paper, which he passed through. It was the size of a large hardback book.

  Ignoring the black glances he was getting from the people in the queue, the security man brought it across to Sumner and Parrish; Viktor and the other man followed.

  ‘This is it?’ Sumner asked.

  Viktor nodded. ‘Open it and see. Carefully.’

  Shielded from prying eyes by the security officers, Sumner took a penknife from his pocket and gingerly slit the wrapping paper along three edges. He peeled it back gently, not wanting to lay a finger on the book, and stared at the faded blue cover.

  History of Russian Philosophy by N. O. Lossky.

  ‘Take Mr Kunaev back to Stratfield Saye, please,’ he told the security men. ‘Thank you, Mr Kunaev.’

  Viktor shrugged glumly. His shop was empty.

  *

  ‘Sir Horace is waiting for you but Mr Knight hasn’t come in yet,’ Gaunt’s secretary
told Parrish and Sumner fifteen minutes later. ‘Maybe he’s making a late start after last night. You heard about Mr Franklyn, I suppose? Sir Horace sent a memo around this morning. Poor Mr Franklyn. He shouldn’t have been smoking with a heart like that.’

  Parrish turned to Sumner. ‘Let’s go ahead and put Horace in the picture anyway. Edmund can join us when he gets here.’

  Sumner looked down at the book with its torn wrappings. Something had happened that he couldn’t fully explain. Just twenty-four hours ago it had all seemed so exciting. Now it was as flat as ice. It was the look in Viktor Kunaev’s dulled eyes that had done it. Something, Sumner realised, had died. But what? Trust? Perhaps, but not trust in a system. In the end it wasn’t a question of systems or ideologies. It was a question of people.

  Wasn’t that a kind of death: when a man ran out of that kind of trust?

  ‘You go in,’ he said quietly to Parrish. ‘It doesn’t need two of us. I’ll take this to Forensics.’

  32

  Surrey

  In the countryside thirty miles west of London, the A30 passed through the commuter heartlands of Egham and Virginia Water, then ran through Sunningdale and on to Bagshot. Between these two towns, in the vicinity of the village of Windlesham, it followed a dead straight line for two miles.

  It was six thirty in the evening when the bald man came onto this stretch from Bagshot direction, travelling east. It was the peak commuter hour and the westbound carriageway was an endless thread of headlights.

  He let the speed of the Yamaha RD350 drop to thirty, holding it steady at that until he reached the Windmill pub, on his left. Here he swung into the car park and brought the bike around in a wide arc to face the road again. He planted his feet on the ground either side of the machine, switched to sidelights and let the engine continue idling quietly.

  He wore the black racing leathers, long boots, gauntlets and red and white helmet that had been with the bike when they collected it. The darkened visor was clipped shut, hiding his face completely.

  Some modifications had been made to the Yamaha. An aluminium pannier was fastened on either side of the rear pillion and a third box, large and square, was mounted behind it. They were painted red and white to match the helmet and the bike’s fairing; the rear box bore the words ‘Jet Dispatch’ and a London telephone number. A radio speaker and handmike were slung beneath the handlebars. A black plastic rocker switch was screwed in place beside them, adjacent to the clutch lever.