The Silent War

by Andreas Norman

  ‘Smile,’ she says.

  He smiles.

  The coordinator doesn’t reciprocate but gives it her objective consideration. Then she puts a laptop on the dark dining table. ‘Read this,’ she tells him. It is as if they are staging a theatrical performance, and the screen sets out his role. He is part of an illusion, a secret production for which everyone and no one in particular is the audience. She waits while he reads the instructions.

  ‘Do you know what to do in an emergency?’

  He nods. During an operation, even the ordinary urban environment must be considered enemy territory. He is no longer Jonathan Green, but a man seeking medical care, a man who will introduce himself as George if asked and will show fake ID before disappearing, shedding his skin and dissolving in a string of controlled retreats. He has a layer of identity concealing a second layer of identity that conceals the Jonathan Green he actually is, and inside Jonathan Green are things he has never told anyone. No one truly knows who he is. No one will ever get to know him deep down; not even he really knows who he is, where his emotions are rooted.

  Grandma asks him a question.

  He focuses on her.

  She looks at him sceptically, holding out a car key. Is he okay? He smiles. How long have they been standing there? He’s fine, he says, taking the key. Just fine. And somehow he means it, because he feels nothing: he is someone else now. They are ready.

  Be prepared, says the voice on the phone. Pick-up will take place shortly. He waits. In his inactivity he tries to avoid thinking about Robert, Frances and everything that is part of his own life.

  Instead, he thinks about Vermeer. Ever since he recruited the young student in Damascus twelve years ago, Vermeer has worked for them. Being an agent for MI6 is a real secret – the kind you take to the grave. Extremely few people will ever be aware of Vermeer’s secret life, it is as if it has barely existed. He will age inside his secrecy, and when he dies, an archive of secrets never told will disappear with him.

  He remembers Damascus and the daily game of cat and mouse with Assad’s Moscow-trained security services. It had been an excellent training ground. The threat on the streets and in the echoing corridors of the Syrian state was constant.

  Hours pass. He drinks water from the tap in the kitchen and wonders whether to call Frances, but suffocates the insane impulse at the last moment.

  Then, finally, a text message: Taxi outside.

  And outside the main door there is a polished black cab waiting.

  He allows himself to be driven towards the city centre in silence. What happens next has been predetermined down to the last detail and he is still fascinated by how smoothly the practicalities run. An intricate plan has been built around him and there is a satisfaction to being at its centre.

  He leans back.

  Will Vermeer distrust him? It has been more than ten years since they met.

  His thoughts move quickly and clearly as he plans, trying to predict unexpected twists. Traffic is heavy. He is worried they will be late, but the traffic begins to move more freely.

  The taxi stops outside Harrods and he pays as if it were a real taxi, because everything is a cover now – even the smallest details should conceal what is actually happening. Then he gets out into the crowds rushing by.

  Inside the department store he saunters through the different sections, matching the tempo of the people around him. He notes a man wearing a practical windcheater moving in his vicinity, then a woman in a pale cashmere coat. There are intelligence services who would be interested in his meeting. If he is spotted he has to abort. He stops in the concession for a conservative menswear brand and looks over his shoulder: the woman walks past.

  Two well-turned-out men smile and welcome him with a nod – in their eyes he is a prospective customer. He strolls through the concession looking at the jackets. No, he’s just browsing, he says before leaving and moving on. No one seems to be following him. He changes floor and goes into the concession for an Italian brand, chooses a shirt and tries it on in one of the cubicles. When he comes out he sees nothing that concerns him. A tailored light-blue shirt – he buys it and does a lap of the floor to be sure that the signal has got through. One bag means all clear, two bags means abort.

  He takes the lift down to the car park and emerges into the symmetrical darkness.

  He drives east. The traffic is clear as he keeps an eye on the cars in his mirrors. There is potential meaning in everything: a green car with two passengers. A motorbike thirty metres behind him. A van in the outside lane with tinted windows. Coincidences, patterns. For those unable to interpret courses of events, there is nothing to see. A professional opponent can melt into the masses, disappear chameleon-like into the flickering events.

  He pulls off the main road.

  Just a few minutes left now. He parks, and walks languidly up the stairs and into the entrance of the hospital. He is on time. At reception he asks for directions to the Ear, Nose and Throat clinic and at that moment is just one of the many visitors, clad in a reality clinging to him like a second skin, intensely real in the way that only a carefully planned manipulation can be.

  Corridors. A lift.

  Up, out.

  Empty dayrooms, sunshine penetrating through walls of frosted glass.

  Around him are doors into patients’ rooms, staff rooms, shadowy beds with still bodies. Two nurses in blue uniforms pass by talking to each other and ignoring him. A doctor steps out and they almost collide, smiling briefly at each other as a form of polite reflex. He glides through their world, sailing calmly towards his target.

  The waiting room is lit in such a way that every particle is illuminated. Opposite him is a woman in a thin down coat. She is reading a gossip magazine. He is in position.

  He is early and has time to pop to the toilet. There he is, in the mirror above the basin: a middle-aged man with calm, honourable facial features. All he can see is impenetrable ordinariness. Good. He returns to the waiting room.

  ‘Simmons?’

  For a fraction of a second he is out of character, he is just Jonathan, sitting in a waiting room. Then he reacts and becomes George Simmons with a slight smile. The nurse shows him into a consulting room. Before she disappears through a white door, she tells him to unbutton his shirt.

  Alone in the room, he takes off his jacket and button-by-button exposes his pale, freckly torso. Then he sits down on a chrome metal stool and waits. Like a patient, just as it should be.

  The first time he met the man to whom they assigned the code name Vermeer had been in Damascus. They had been tipped off about him by their networks. The man they met in a luxury hotel was a young Syrian studying medicine. A thin and slightly old-fashioned, upright young man, completely inexperienced, one of the many idealists dreaming of a free Syria. But they had tested him. Jonathan can remember the chilly winter Friday after prayers when they had flown him to a doctors’ conference in Dubai and given him his first assignment. Over the years he had been able to use his position as a doctor in the Syrian army to pass them useful information. When he had become the personal physician for a number of generals, he became a golden calf for MI6. They gave him the code name Vermeer because the intelligence he provided them with was so clear and precise, filled with distinct details. As the years had passed he had given them insight into the health and medication of the Syrian elite, their most intimate secrets. Then, when the war had come, he had joined the opposition with his brother. Then he had fled.

  It has been more than a decade but Jonathan still immediately recognises the doctor who enters through the door. The same gangly build, the same well-groomed beard. He is the same, but the lines around his mouth are sharper. He has the seriousness of a grown man, but there is also something haggard about him. The war claims victims even amongst those who successfully escape.

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ says Vermeer, st
anding in the doorway with a cautious smile.

  They shake hands. They always refer to him as Vermeer, and it is strange to see him here in a British hospital with a name badge on his white coat showing his real surname, Malki.

  Jonathan cares about all the agents he recruits, but this man has always brought about a particular sense of attachment in him. There is something about Vermeer’s mild manners that makes him want to protect him, take care of him. He admires Vermeer for his precision – how he got his code name – but his agent has no idea that he holds a special place in the hearts of Vauxhall Cross, which is for the best as it would only make him nervous.

  In the Damascus years he would lie awake at night worrying about Vermeer ahead of assignments. When his agent was scared, it was up to him to calm him down. He was Vermeer’s protector, charged with providing clean phones, changing addresses and leading the Syrian security services astray. He would love to reminisce, but there isn’t time.

  Vermeer gets out his stethoscope and leans forward, putting the cool membrane against Jonathan’s ribcage.

  ‘Malki, we need you.’

  The doctor calmly moves the stethoscope to a new point on his chest. He is listening.

  ‘We need to establish contact with your brother’s friends.’

  He meets Vermeer’s gaze. The dark eyes are close.

  ‘Nothing more than that. Just contact.’

  Vermeer moves the stethoscope.

  ‘I have nothing to do with them.’

  He notices that the man is afraid. Afraid that the phantom before him will suck him into a war that will ruin everything he has laboriously built up, forcing him back to what he left behind. He is Dr Malki – he doesn’t want to be Vermeer again.

  ‘You have to,’ he says in the same calm voice he used to use with Vermeer. ‘All we need is contact with Ahrar al-Sham, immediately.’

  ‘But they’ll know . . .’

  Worry shines in his eyes, his pupils trembling from the force. Vermeer shakes his head.

  He has to get through to him, avoid him withdrawing. In a flash he puts a hand on the back of his agent’s neck in a protective and dominant gesture. He feels the man tense before relaxing and letting himself be steered.

  ‘You are one of my best agents,’ he says quietly. ‘I have come here because our government needs you. Just do it and then carry on with your life as normal.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Remember, we can influence who is considered appropriate to provide specialist medical care in this country.’

  He lets go of him. Vermeer straightens himself. It is so sad to have to resort to blackmail, but if he is choosing between this doctor’s future and the security of the country, then the choice is easy.

  ‘They’ll know I’m working for you.’

  ‘No,’ he says with a smile. ‘Suspect, perhaps. But nothing more.’

  Then he explains that later this evening the police will come to his home. They will interview him, his wife and his eldest son. He sees Vermeer’s eyes widen in protest but merely raises his hand to calm and finish his point. The visit from the police is part of a national counter-terrorism initiative. The police will make a string of arrests across England and will also take him to the station, before releasing him later tonight. There is no need to worry, there are no suspicions or charges against him or his family.

  ‘That’s your cover.’

  Vermeer glowers at him, but he understands.

  No one expects Dr Malki, brother of a Syrian Islamist, to be one of MI6’s most skilled agents. By strengthening his identity as a Muslim being discriminated against, he is absolved of all suspicion.

  This is something he teaches his agents: use the truths of life as cover. Don’t make things up if you don’t have to, because all fabrications are fragile. Better to play on people’s expectations and prejudices. Make the enemy think you are harmless, or even a friend. Then they will be ignorant of your true intentions.

  He whispers the message Vermeer is to give the rebels, word for word. ‘The British Government sends its greetings to the leaders of the Ahrar al-Sham coalition. One million pounds sterling for the man from Raqqa they are holding captive.’ He whispers the prisoner’s name. Then a phone number.

  ‘Can you remember that?’

  Vermeer gives a tired nod.

  Someone knocks on the door.

  ‘I’m busy,’ he shouts angrily, once again becoming Dr Malki.

  The nurse’s voice is muffled by the door as she says sorry. The red light outside the door indicating the room is occupied is illuminated but the door is unlocked. Someone might come in by mistake.

  Vermeer glares at him, the stethoscope useless in his hands. The slightly yielding expression previously on his face has been surprisingly quickly replaced by a tough vigilance that reminds him that this man, despite his doctor’s coat and timid manner, is an experienced resource.

  He gets up. He would have preferred to leave him as a friend, but it can’t be helped.

  Back in the flat after the meeting with Vermeer, he paces around the room, waiting. He is part of an operation now and must be protected from all forms of surveillance, he knows that, but he doesn’t want to be kept like this: it feels as though someone were shovelling soil on top of him; the flat is suffocating him. He roots through the kitchen cupboards. He is lucky and finds an open bottle of whisky and pours himself a dram.

  He phones Grandma and asks for permission to take a walk. She issues a flat refusal. She will be in touch when he is needed, she says hanging up. When he is needed. As if he were a circus animal being kept in anticipation of the next number.

  It is a truly horrid feeling knowing that Robert wants to do him harm and he tries to handle it by drinking another whisky. It is Robert’s coolness that frightens him – he didn’t get angry. If Robert had shouted and punched him he would have felt calm. If only he could sit down and talk to Robert, he thinks. After all, they are friends. If only Frances would give him a little time to deal with Robert, they could solve all of this together.

  Darkness falls. He is sitting in the armchair drinking the last of the whisky.

  He decides to ignore the fact that his phone is bugged. He calls Frances.

  It rings. Just as he is about to accept with disappointment that she won’t answer, she picks up.

  ‘Hello,’ he exclaims. ‘Are you at home?’

  He regrets it instantly, it’s a stupid question and he doesn’t want to know.

  Yes, she is at home, she says quietly. He can hear her walking through rooms, perhaps she steps aside into the bedroom; he imagines her there. It is strange how familiar her voice is – that soft, lingering tone.

  ‘I didn’t have anything much to say.’

  Somewhere in the room behind her is Robert, he can hear the faint sound of music on the stereo. He can picture exactly what it looks like, how beautiful she is, how distant yet close she is.

  ‘Jonathan,’ she says. ‘It’s not appropriate for you to call.’

  ‘I understand.’

  So formal. When had their relationship ever been appropriate? But his words can no longer spellbind her, he has nothing that impresses her. He wants to say that he loves her, but it is too late – it would do no more than awaken mild irritation in her. He realises that he shouldn’t have called, but he doesn’t want to accept that this is over – not like this.

  ‘I won’t bother you again.’

  She doesn’t reply. Dear God, he really has lost her. Perhaps they were never a couple but only really two individual people who needed each other. But she meant something to him, she reminded him of something he had lost in himself. He closes his eyes and can imagine her face close to his, like when they made love in the darkness.

  ‘Frances?’

  ‘I have to hang up now.’

  ‘Can we speak lat
er?’

  ‘Of course,’ she says without meaning it.

  He bids her a good evening and hangs up.

  Have a good evening! What is this meaningless drivel? He should have said something she could take away with her, he should have said: ‘I love you. I don’t know whether I can bear never seeing you again.’ Words like that had always felt like clichés and embarrassed him, but he should have said them. ‘Why are you staying with Robert? Was I nothing more than a distraction for you? A diversion? A counterweight to him?’

  That’s it, he thinks, as if forced to minimise the import of what has just happened. He can picture her putting the phone down and going back to Robert. Perhaps Robert asks who it was and she lies, saying it was a friend inviting her to lunch tomorrow, and order is restored.

  He needs to get out.

  He twitches the heavy curtains and looks down into the deserted, dark, rain-soaked street. He can’t see a guard – there is no one sitting in any of the cars. He puts on his coat and wonders which way is best before remembering that the kitchen has a door opening onto a small back garden.

  The fresh air is wonderful. He moves quickly over the wet grass and finds a narrow gate in the brick wall. But there is a code lock. He swears quietly, afraid that it is all for nothing, but he isn’t planning to give up now – he takes a few steps back, takes a run and throws himself up, clawing at the ivy climbing the wall, and heaves himself up with a celebratory and boylike sense of freedom. Then he swings down on the other side.

  He is in the small lane behind the large, well-to-do houses, and soon he is walking through the streets near Paddington. Standing on that desolate residential street he is free, but he is immediately unsure of what to do with his freedom. Free from what? He doesn’t know how to extract himself from the slow car crash that is his life at present. But he pushes all the gloomy thoughts to one side and focuses on a simpler and more achievable goal – getting drunk.

  He walks along a few streets. Wasn’t there a pub near Warwick Avenue? He has a vague memory of a picturesque side street where he and Kate once had a drink – back when he had looked forward to having a drink with her. But it is as if the pub has been swallowed by the ground – perhaps it has closed down, like so many other things.