‘You’re a field agent, then? That’s unusual.’
‘Plenty of field agents last time I looked.’
‘You know what I mean. You’re a woman. Hell of a leap for you.’
‘Yeah? Well, maybe I earned it, mate.’
They motored through the leafy squares of Bloomsbury. Winter had imagined they were heading to the service’s new headquarters in Lambeth but it was clear the girl had another destination in mind.
‘How much do you know about me?’ he asked, equally curious and suspicious.
‘You have the biggest file I’ve ever seen. They let me read the first page.’
Winter smiled, almost to himself. ‘I doubt you’d believe the rest.’
‘Oh, I read it all, mate,’ said Libby, breezily. ‘Broke in to the Boneyard one night. Sometimes life’s too short for security clearances. Mind you, by the sound of it you’ve had quite a life, haven’t you?’
Winter said nothing. The sports car purred into Maple Street. Libby eased it into a parking space – she was spoilt for choice – and they slid to a halt among the brick-fronted townhouses.
‘Well, there it is,’ she said, as the engine dwindled. ‘The eighth wonder of London.’
The Post Office Tower stood like a dream the morning couldn’t quite shake. It rose to the clouds, coiled in steel and glass, its upper section bristling with transmitter dishes and meteorological sensors. A corona of sunlight framed the aerial-studded mast. It was the first time Winter had seen the building since it had been completed the year before. It looked like a monument to tomorrow, sunk into the heart of Fitzrovia.
‘We’re going inside?’
‘Of course. He’s waiting for us.’
Libby left the car and walked to the parking meter, plucking shillings from her purse. Winter spotted a discarded bundle of fish and chips beneath the driver’s seat, its cold contents wrapped in pages of the Daily Mirror. The vinegar-stained face of Charles de Gaulle stared back at him.
He was about to follow her. And then he paused as he reached for the door handle.
‘So who told you I was a wanker?’
* * *
The lift climbed the floors, the numbered squares on the metal plate illuminating in sequence, clocking up the highest numerals Winter had ever seen in an elevator. He felt his stomach shift as they reached the final floor, the lift docking with a murmur of hydraulics.
The red doors whispered apart. A man in an old Etonian tie was waiting, his frame filling the doorway. Winter was patted down, his gun and knuckle-duster taken. Then the man discovered the discreet knife strapped against Winter’s left calf. He took that too, piling the weapons in his hand.
‘This way, sir.’ The manner was brisk but courteous. He had been trained well.
Winter followed him in, stepping on to plush blue carpet. The wide, circular room filled the entire floor, ringed by tall windows that commanded a giddying view of the capital, stretching like a train-set village to the horizon. Even the dome of St Paul’s was dwarfed by this technological monolith. Light flooded in, giving the room a gauzy, almost unreal quality, like something half seen or half remembered.
Libby strolled to one of the panoramic windows and looked out to Parliament Hill. She pulled an apple from the pocket of her raincoat.
There was a beechwood desk in the centre of the room. The man in the Eton tie placed the pile of weapons upon it. And then he stood to one side, his fists behind his back.
Sir Crispin Faulkner lifted the knuckle-duster from his desk. He turned the tarnished brass in his hand, regarding it with undisguised distaste.
‘I did wonder what would become of you, Winter. I never dreamt you’d end up as a common thug.’
‘I think only my pension arrangements have changed, sir.’
Winter immediately regretted the word ‘sir’. It was ingrained.
The head of British Intelligence ignored the barb, turning his attention to Winter’s gun. He lifted it up, pinching the barrel between his fingers as if unwilling to make any more contact with the weapon than he needed to. ‘And this. Mauser HSc 7.65mm. Shabby choice. It’s a Nazi pistol, for God’s sake. Belonged to some prisoner of war, no doubt. Black market was flooded with them in ’45.’
‘It does its job.’
Faulkner wrinkled his eyes, unimpressed. ‘And just what sort of job might that be? Bank raid? Protection racket? Smash and grab? Or is Jack Creadley a more upstanding citizen than I give him credit for? I’d hate to stain a decent man’s reputation.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Winter, bluntly. ‘And I didn’t have much choice. It’s not as if references are easy to come by when you’ve signed the Official Secrets Act.’
Faulkner returned the pistol to the desk, using a thumb to nudge it away. ‘We would have taken you back, you know. You’re an asset.’
Winter kept his words measured. ‘You used me. That’s what you do with assets, isn’t it? All those bloody lies I lived for you. My wife. My home. Everything. You knew the truth about who I was all that time, and you kept it from me.’ He felt a sudden flare of contempt that he couldn’t suppress. ‘Why the hell would I come back to you?’
‘You were Malcolm’s project. Another example of his rather unorthodox approach to national security. I must say I almost miss his expertise in such matters.’
‘Project?’ Winter reached across the desk but the man with the Eton tie already had a gun on him. Winter grudgingly raised his hands. Libby watched from the window. She took another bite of her apple.
Faulkner hadn’t even flinched. He was like a grey flannel battleship behind the desk. ‘Your grievance against the service is noted.’
‘That’s not an apology.’
‘Her Majesty’s government isn’t in the business of apology.’ Then something softened in Faulkner’s eyes. ‘But, yes, personally speaking, I’m sorry, Tobias. You deserved better.’
A muscle moved beneath Winter’s cheek. Tobias Hart. The man he had been. A magus, a warlock, a disciple of the darkest magic. That part of his soul had been stripped from him, consigned to Hell. It had died in 1947, in the burning Namib desert. British Intelligence had taken what was left, the shell of the man, the husk. They had constructed a new identity, created a new life. He barely remembered being Hart but the name was like a naked nerve.
He spoke softly, assuredly. ‘My name is Christopher Winter.’
Faulkner nodded, not unsympathetic. ‘Your prerogative, of course.’
Winter gestured to the skyline. ‘I presumed I’d be taken to Lambeth. Not the most conspicuous bloody building in London.’
‘This is Location 23. Officially it’s still a state secret.’
Winter kept his face straight. ‘Right. So you’ve disguised it as a tourist attraction. That’s truly ingenious.’
‘This building is a communications hub, the most powerful in Britain. But it doesn’t just transmit television or connect trunk calls. It listens. It listens to everything. Of course we’re part of it. Not that the press know that, of course, but we’ll maintain our presence here when it opens to the public. And besides, I can’t imagine you’re in any hurry to be reunited with your colleagues at Century House, given your circumstances.’
‘They’re not my colleagues. Not anymore.’
‘Well, technically you never resigned.’
Winter considered this. ‘Technically, sir, I never shoved it up your arse. But we have time.’
Again Faulkner didn’t deign to register the jibe. ‘You were involved with a Russian Intelligence agent during Operation Magus.’
‘Involved? Leading choice of word.’
‘Karina Lazarova. Naturally she’s of considerable interest to us.’
‘She infiltrated the Russians. She wasn’t one of them.’
‘We’re aware that her loyalties were fluid, to say the least. She was reported to be in London some eighteen months ago. We were very near to seizing her. And then she vanished. She must have known how close we were.’
<
br /> Winter gave a dry smile. ‘For the best, I imagine. Saved your boys some grief.’
‘Our most recent intelligence placed her in the Dominican Republic, employed as a bodyguard to Colonel Caamaño in that coup against the junta, before the Americans muscled in. But that was two months ago. I take it you’re not aware of her present whereabouts?’
‘I’d just follow the bodies, if I were you.’
‘Did she compromise you emotionally?’ asked Faulkner, with a sudden bluntness. ‘In the field, I mean?’
Winter paused. ‘It was a purely practical relationship. We made the best of our circumstances.’
‘Of course. And I’m sure the end of that relationship had no bearing whatsoever on your subsequent descent into London’s gutters.’
Winter bristled. ‘Do piss off.’
‘Still, in the end you proved a tad easier to locate than she did.’
‘Just tell me why I’m here.’
Faulkner opened a drawer. A manila folder hit the desk, its contents ribboned shut and stamped CLEARANCE – AMETHYST. Each file in the Boneyard was assigned a precious stone, denoting its place in the hierarchy of secrets. Amethyst was reasonably high-tier intelligence.
Faulkner took a letter knife and slit the red ribbon. He spread the contents of the file before him, spinning a glossy black-and-white photograph so that Winter could view it.
‘Recognise her?’
Winter appraised the eight by ten. The woman in the picture had a sleek black bob, almost brutally geometric. There was a wide, unmistakably sensual span to her mouth, the lips full but set in a stern, confident line. The image itself was flat and washed-out. Clearly a harsh lighting source had been used. Winter suspected it was a mugshot of some kind, a police photo or a portrait for a government dossier.
And yet the woman’s pupils were enlarged, defying the flashbulb that should have made them shrink.
He stared at the picture, engaged by those wide, kohl-shadowed eyes. For a moment a memory seemed to stir like dust. And then it was gone.
‘She’s vaguely familiar, I admit. But I can’t place her. Who is she?’
‘Alessandra Moltini. Italian extraction, as far as we can ascertain. Currently in Budapest. Employed by the state. Works honeytraps, and pretty irresistible bait by all accounts. She’s compromised a fair number of foreign officials over the past few years, including some of our own men. Photographs, blackmail, the usual filthy snare. Now she wants out.’
‘She wants to defect?’
Faulkner nodded, briskly. ‘Needless to say, we could use her knowledge to establish an accurate register of exactly who the party is manipulating. Use those people to our advantage. Start to feed back some disinformation, find the faultlines. Sabotage the whole infrastructure. Make it work for us.’
Winter absorbed this in silence. Only one question occurred to him. ‘What the hell has this got to do with me?’
Faulkner tapped the photograph. ‘I want you to get her out.’
‘This is a simple extraction job. Anyone can do it. Cracknell can do it. She’s good enough. Give her a promotion.’
Libby gave an ironic little smile from her position by the window. And then she continued to munch her apple.
Faulkner regarded Winter with his imperturbable blue eyes. ‘She’s asked for you by name.’
It was a clear play for his curiosity. But Winter resisted. ‘I don’t know this woman. Never met her, not that I recall. I certainly don’t owe her any favours. I owe you even less.’
‘I’m not asking you for a favour, Winter.’
‘Well, it was your best option, Sir Crispin. I’m all out of patriotic duty.’
He turned and began to walk to the lift. No need to get involved with any of this, he told himself. There would be other opportunities available to him: he had the skills and he had the experience. He could carve his own fortune any time, far from a government payroll. The shadow war against the Reds was no longer his war.
‘She didn’t ask for Christopher Winter,’ Faulkner said, without raising his voice. ‘She asked for Tobias Hart.’
Winter paused. The fish hook had landed, expertly cast by the old bastard.
* * *
It was an unlikely place for a psychological evaluation. Banks of instruments stood against the walls. Needles shivered in gauges while meters spoke the private language of voltage, electrical counters ticking behind glass. In the corners were bunches of brightly coloured wire, lashed together with crocodile clips. The small, windowless room felt like an untidy science experiment, caught mid-tinker.
And then there was the hum. You felt it as much as you heard it. The steady, contained drone of the tower, its power ever present.
Winter took the stiff-backed chair propped in front of the solitary desk. He suspected it had been requisitioned from the GPO, just like the room itself.
‘How are you?’ asked Dr Bhamra, resting her glasses on her greying hair. There was a cup of Assam tea in front of her, a filter-tip cigarette glowing on the rim of the china saucer.
‘Is that officially a question?’
She smiled. ‘You can take it as you wish.’
‘Then I’m fine. Thank you for asking.’
She raised a fountain pen and scored a single word on a waiting sheet of paper. Winter was practised in reading upside down. It was a necessary skill in the field. Bhamra’s writing was scratchy but he was fairly certain the word she had chosen was defensive.
‘Spot on, I’d say.’
She kept the sheet exactly where it was. ‘I’m glad you agree.’ And then she wrote another word. This time it looked like ego-syntonic. At least it wasn’t wanker, thought Winter.
‘I’ve been asked to evaluate you,’ she said, dispassionately. ‘I’m not here to parry with you and I’m not here to judge. I’m here to assess whether you’re fit for purpose. Understood?’
Winter nodded. ‘Understood. It’s been a while since I’ve had to do one of these.’
Bhamra reached for the stack of cards placed next to her teacup. She turned the top card over, revealing a splotch of black ink.
‘So tell me, Christopher. What does this remind you of?’
Winter made a show of studying the mess of ink. ‘It reminds me very strongly of a Rorschach test.’
Bhamra reached for her cigarette and took a drag. ‘Humour tends to be an act of avoidance or displacement,’ she said, letting the smoke issue between her teeth. ‘It’s not particularly helpful in this situation. But do go on.’
Winter stared at the ink, trying to find some pattern, some shape, any comment he could make to move this conversation closer to its endpoint.
‘God knows. A house?’
The fountain pen raced across the paper. ‘And by house do you mean home?’ pressed Bhamra. ‘Do you feel separated from it? Or is it a reassuring image for you?’
‘It’s a load of bloody ink.’
‘Go with your gut feeling. Go with whatever you don’t want to tell me.’
‘Separated.’
‘And would you consider the service your home?’
Winter grunted. ‘At the moment home is a bedsit in Battersea. I imagine the ink reminds me of the damp. Honestly, the state of the walls is shocking.’
Bhamra replaced her cigarette on the saucer’s rim. ‘The Rorschach test is a little misunderstood. Hermann Rorschach originally created it as a tool to aid in the diagnosis of schizophrenia.’
‘I’m not schizophrenic.’ Defensive.
‘I wasn’t suggesting you were. Schizophrenia is characterised by fractures in cognitive functioning. I’ve read your file. What you’ve experienced appears to be closer to dissociative identity disorder. Two distinct personality states. It’s fascinating.’
‘Well, I’m glad I’m giving you some professional pleasure, at least.’ God, he ached to be out of this room.
Bhamra turned another card. This time the riot of ink instantly snapped into focus, coalescing in his imagination.
&nb
sp; ‘That’s an entry wound,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘That’s how the flesh ruptures, given the typical passage of a bullet through tissue. I imagine normal people see butterfly wings, don’t they?’
Bhamra sipped her tea and smiled. ‘You’d be surprised.’
She wrote his answer in the file then let the fountain pen hover. ‘Tell me. This parallel personality you’ve experienced. This Tobias Hart…’
‘He’s gone,’ said Winter, emphatically. ‘That’s not who I am anymore. My name is Christopher Winter.’
‘Of course,’ Bhamra assured him, the pen moving again. Another word on the page. Winter was sure it said denial.
‘Do you feel as though you have a relationship to him? Do you access his memories, his thoughts?’
‘Glimpses. Now and again. No more than that.’
‘And do you feel as though these thoughts, these memories, belong to you in any sense? Or are you simply observing them, detached?’
‘I’ve told you. He’s gone.’
Winter shifted in his chair. The room was hot and its insistent hum was starting to scrape at his nerves. He gestured to the table. ‘Give me another card.’
She did so, lifting it from the pile and placing it neatly in front of him. Winter stared at the black symmetrical blooms, trying to fathom some meaning, some symbol. This time nothing leapt out at him. For a moment he caught an echo of the kohl-shadowed eyes he had seen in the photograph on Faulkner’s desk. But they were soon gone, as if snatched back and buried by the ink.
‘What do you see?’ Bhamra prompted.
Winter squinted. ‘Nothing. There’s nothing there. No pattern to it at all.’
‘Keep looking. I’m sure something will come to you.’
Winter fought to impose some order on the formless mass. The sooner he did so the sooner he would walk from this room. The collusion of ink continued to resist him. And then he spotted something: the blot wasn’t symmetrical after all. The left-hand bloom was larger and denser. Considerably so, in fact. How had he not noticed that? Surely the two halves had been identical, perfect mirrors of one another?
The more he stared at the ink the more it had a sense of movement. The splatters curled on the white card, almost like tiny, spiralling tendrils. They crept to the edges, unfurling, extending. Winter couldn’t take his eyes away. The black chaos had become mesmerising. It coiled and it writhed and it slipped through infinite possibilities. The world, it told him, was fluid. It could be taken and it could be moulded, reshaped like spilt mercury. It was easy. He’d done it before. What was he afraid of?
The Spider Dance Page 3