The Jaded Spy

by Nick Spill

  “Mr. Catelin, who do you think I am? We have an agreement. I work for you. And I would not break it for the world. Now, let’s get back to the photos. If certain people saw them, wouldn’t it change everything? If his wife saw the photos, she would divorce him. His own party would disown him. All sorts of things could happen we can only speculate on. One thing we do know, though—it’s a game-changer. An election-winner. So I need something from the government in return.” Alexander was careful not to make it personal. He knew the National Party would pay for the photos. “For a start, I need a significant salary increase. What I earn is way too low and not commensurate with what I have achieved so far and the shows I am planning. And second, I want, what can I call it? A finder’s fee.”

  Catelin reached for a pipe and started the process of checking it, cleaning the bowl out with his penknife, and filling it from his leather pouch. “We could accommodate you, up to a certain point,” he puffed eventually. “We would have to account for the expenditure.” He waved his pipe, and smoke whirled around his head. “But I am sure we can come to an arrangement. It might not be what you would expect but it would be much better than you are getting now.” He got up from his desk. “You have your ticket to Auckland, correct? And you have a place to stay?”

  “I think so. An old friend.” Alexander had written to his friend, and called her a few times, but she was never home.

  “Good. You will meet with an Inspector Grimble from the Auckland police when you arrive. Follow his lead. Once the painting is safely delivered, the handover and paperwork are very important. It will be the Auckland Gallery’s responsibility and the police’s, after they sign the papers. But I want you to do something else. And your director agrees.”

  Alexander froze.

  “I want you to stay for the opening of the exhibit and be in Auckland for a few extra days. The government is very worried about the security of Captain Cook. It’s a very valuable painting and they are concerned. Bring the camera and stay alert.”

  Alexander understood his new role but was intrigued by Catelin’s choice of words. Who would steal it on the way to the gallery? Or rip it off the wall once it was in Auckland? It wasn’t an episode of The Sweeney, his favorite English cops-and-robber’s TV show. Kiwis did not steal old paintings and they did not nick old Captain Cook.

  “The army is helping out as well. Expect to see them. But I have no idea what they have planned as they won’t tell us. Operational security. And here are your expenses.” Catelin handed him a thin envelope. Alexander did not want to open it in front of him. Was the money in five-dollar notes, tens, twenties? He was concerned that he did not have to sign for it, like a good government bureaucrat. He rushed to his office at the National Art Gallery and counted ten $20 notes. It wasn’t as much as he’d hoped, but he had his airline tickets.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The plane came to a complete stop before the terminal. Alexander saw a row of army Jeeps and trucks on the runway as if they were expecting an invasion. Serious army men with bad haircuts and big rifles were running around shouting at each other. Alexander was amused by the display of force for a dead British navy captain who had been murdered by natives on a faraway island almost two hundred years ago.

  The front cabin door was opened by the stewardess, and Alexander carried his crate down the gangway to the tarmac. She carried his camera bag and suitcase behind him. An army major saluted him and walked with him to the second Jeep. Alexander placed the crate behind the front seats and took the suitcase and his camera bag from the stewardess. “Good luck, Mr. Newton,” she smiled. Alexander nodded, pleased he had chosen his blue suit with a white shirt and narrow blue tie.

  They roared off in a convoy. Four motorcycle cops were in front with their lights and sirens on, then the lead Jeep with four armed soldiers. Alexander followed in his Jeep with the major in front directing the procession by radio. Two more Jeeps were behind with more soldiers. Two canvas-covered trucks worked through their gears to keep pace. Inside, soldiers sat across from each other holding their rifles as if ready for an ambush. Alexander turned and saw more police motorcycles behind him. He felt like a rock star with a police and army escort. Sirens and lights. If he had kept his hair longer, it would be blowing in the cold wind. But he was a respectable curator, and an unknown spy, with a mute Captain Cook and half the New Zealand army for company. The government had underwritten the insurance to cover the risk of moving such a valuable painting from Wellington to Auckland.

  At the receiving dock of the gallery, the police motorcyclists blocked one end of Kitchener Street while the two trucks blocked the other, and a phalanx of soldiers with their rifles allowed the major to usher Alexander into the gallery out of sight of any passers-by. Inside, a tall plainclothes policeman stood almost at attention, and the major saluted him. “Major Sinjin Mainwaring.”

  “I’m Inspector Bernie Grimble and I officially take control of the painting. Thank you, major. Can you sign here, please.”

  “I’m Alexander Newton, the curator,” Alexander said but the major and the inspector ignored him as they eyed each other, and what they held in their hands—paperwork.

  “Of course. And if you could sign here too, please.” Major St. John Mainwaring signed at the bottom of what was a quadruplicate form and presented Grimble with another set of papers documenting that the major, as a designated representative of the New Zealand Army, was relinquishing control of the aforesaid painting to the designated representative of the New Zealand Police.

  Grimble tore off a copy and handed it to the major. The major did the same with his set of papers. Each held the requested signed copies, and for a moment there was confusion as to who had signed what. The major tucked his signed copy and the other copies into his jacket. “Best we be on our way. Pleasure to do business with you.” The major saluted, swiveled around and marched outside to his jeep. He whirled his right hand above his head and the entire group of soldiers and vehicles came to life and formed a straight line behind him.

  Grimble gave copies to the gallery’s curator then Alexander carried the crate upstairs to the conservation room. The curator followed with Alexander’s camera bag and suitcase. “I’m Colin McMillan, by the way,” he said. “I’m supposed to open the crate, inspect the painting and install it right on the wall. The entire space is closed off, but do you want to see it?”

  Alexander nodded. He could not determine the curator’s age. Colin had scraggy hair to his lean shoulders, and a long nose like a beak. He wore bell-bottom jeans and a crisp white lab coat that accentuated his thinness. Alexander followed him, with Grimble close behind.

  Colin used his electric screwdriver to open the top of the crate. He removed the painting slowly. “Oh, I love the old frame. He’s not even full size.”

  “Yes, a three-quarter Cook,” Alexander replied.

  “Are you happy with the way the canvas is attached at the back? The frame?” Colin inspected the back of the painting and with his white gloves pressed the canvas against the frame. “We do this differently. More secure.” He moved the canvas back and forth and glanced at Alexander.

  “That’s how he came. You see a problem?”

  “Not my painting.” Colin looked back at Grimble, who was out of earshot.

  Alexander shrugged.

  Colin said no more and carried the painting to the wall where it would be displayed. He placed the mounting wire on a set of hooks already screwed into the wall. The wire was snapped into place with clamps. He adjusted the frame and asked, “Is it level?”

  Alexander looked at Grimble who nodded his approval. “Perfect. Just the right height too. And secure?”

  “It conforms to Lloyds of London’s stipulated security guidelines for securing valuable paintings,” said Colin. “Besides, who would want to steal old Captain Cook?”

  Alexander and the policeman exchanged glances.

  • • •

  “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the cop, but you l
ooked nervous about the painting. What’s going on?” Colin asked after escorting his Wellington counterpart to his office where Alexander’s suitcase and camera bag were secured.

  “Oh, they all seem so guarded about Captain Cook as if someone might steal it.” Alexander shrugged. “But as you said, who would?”

  “Beats me. But I don’t lie awake at night thinking about robbing banks and post offices either.”

  “The hooks and stuff in the back look secure, but the actual canvas seems not as tight as it should be in the frame.”

  “I’ll look at it after the opening. We can take it to our lab early Monday. We should have done it before, but there’s no time.” Colin smiled. “Anyway, we’re having a party on Saturday. It’s costume, if you want to wear something different.”

  “Great, thanks. Now, Colin, do you have a darkroom? I want to take photos here, around the exhibit.”

  “Sure, I’ll show you. You have a camera in your bag?”

  “Yes, the latest Nikon and a great telephoto lens.”

  “Cool. I thought it was a Tommy gun.”

  “Oh, they haven’t issued me one yet.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alexander knocked on the blue door of a wooden two-story house at the bottom of Grafton. He breathed in the sweet smell of witch hazel, or was it the camellia shrub next to the large casement window? Auckland, or at least this valley, appeared shabby and damp with its Victorian and Edwardian architecture despite signs of an ugly future with high-rise insurance buildings downtown and the carved-out earth of the new motorway near Tsara’s house. He felt uneasy back in Auckland. Called Sin City by those who never visited, it was bigger, noisier and far less hospitable than he remembered.

  A young woman opened the door and looked blankly at him. At first Alexander feared she would not recognize him. She occupied a long granny dress and had a black overgrown pageboy haircut. Even without makeup she had large round eyes that looked charcoal black, thick dark eyebrows and thin red lips. A car raced down Grafton Road and skidded, but they both ignored it. She finally broke into a smile.

  “Tsara! I tried calling. Did you get my letter?” He felt like a refugee at her front door with his suitcase and camera bag.

  “Yes. And here you are.” She spoke softly as she looked at him from under her fringe. They had first met in Introduction to Art History at the university, kindred spirits in art appreciation, protest marches and late-night talks in the university coffee bar, but they had never kissed or even held hands. “My god! You look so different. Come in.”

  Tsara looked exactly the same as Alexander remembered her. “Can I take you out to dinner? There’s a pretentious French restaurant in Parnell. What is it called? Antoine’s, I remember. I just got into town, and—”

  “I’ve made peppermint tea and I have cake.” Tsara wafted into the kitchen and Alexander followed, noting her effortless grace, her relaxed nonchalance. “Are you staying?”

  “I didn’t want to assume anything but if I can, it would be great. The gallery doesn’t like to spend any money on little people like me.”

  “You’re not little.” She looked him up and down and not for the first time Alexander wondered if she was playing with his expectations—or, rather, the lack of them.

  They sat across from each other in the kitchen. She poured tea and cut a slice of homemade fruit cake with walnuts. “What made you shave your beard off and cut your hair?”

  “I’m a professional curator now.”

  “Goodbye to the student rebel. And I heard you broke up with your girlfriend.”

  “What? You know as well? How?”

  “Word gets around. Are you seeing anyone?”

  “And I was going to ask you deep questions about your photography and your current work with a Diana camera.”

  “We can talk about that, but I asked first.”

  “Well, if you must know, I’m seeing someone. Strange relationship, really.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “I bumped into her on the street. We got talking and … ” Alexander gestured vaguely.

  “Were you drunk? I thought you were shy around women. More important, was she drunk?”

  “No. She’s a librarian. A little on the voluptuous side and older than me but a great sense of humor. I think.” Alexander pulled a face and had a flash of insight about Deborah. He started to see her with Tsara’s eyes, and he was disturbed. Did Deborah have a sense of humor? Was she as uninformed as she claimed about her neighbor the alleged spy? Did she know what he was really doing? He shook his head to get rid of these thoughts and put on a smile. If Tsara knew he had taken surveillance photos for the National government, she would throw him out of her house and never speak to him again. He looked around, nervous. Fabrics in red and gold in the living room reminded him of Deborah’s bedroom.

  Unsure now how to react, Alexander resorted to his standby phrase when visiting an artist’s studio: “Show me your latest work.” Was he really shy around women? He must be. He couldn’t remember the last time he had asked someone out on a date.

  Tsara picked up her Diana camera, that took 120 film and had a pinhole lens, she had bought at Woolworths. “I use tape as light leaks in. It’s low-tech and makes great images.”

  He gazed at the moody, out-of-focus portraits she had on one wall. They made him feel sad and on edge, but he kept his impressions to himself.

  Tsara placed two pillows and a blanket on the sofa in the living room. She put Songs of Leonard Cohen on her turntable and disappeared into the bathroom. He knelt down and flicked through her collection including the latest Cohen, New Skin for the Old Ceremony. He wanted to hear it but didn’t know what to make of the cover, two naked angels in an embrace. The merging of the conscious and subconscious? He would have to sleep on it.

  He changed into a T-shirt and got under the covers. As he slipped into a semi-conscious state, a track on the album caught his attention, “The Stranger Song”. Was he the stranger seeking shelter? Too tired to think, he was asleep before Tsara waltzed passed him to her bedroom.

  He woke at three and did not know where he was. The sofa was uncomfortable, but he could stretch out. He thought about all the changes in his life since he had last seen Tsara, and could not reconcile how much he must have changed in her eyes. If she only knew.

  Alexander awoke to see that Tsara had made him tea and marmalade toast. There was a comfortable silence as they ate their breakfast together. Later he had a bath, a shave and dressed. He sat beside her on the sofa. He had forgotten how serene she could be. He felt unmotivated to rush to the gallery, so he gazed at the back cover of the new Cohen LP and wondered about the devout brunette in chains devoured by the fires of purgatory. Was this a message? Or was the other cover with the lover angels meant for him? His life had been so busy he had not thought about what he had been doing, and the moral and ethical implications. Staying with Tsara, he was reminded of his strong student beliefs. What had happened to his anti-establishment protests? His sense of rebellion? They had left him, he realized, along with his long hair and full beard.

  Alexander had sent Tsara a letter about his trip, with a black-and-white print he had developed in his own darkroom. He saw the photo in a frame near the kitchen and was reassured that she cared enough about him to see the print every day.

  She had a new book she had been reading earlier, Against Nature by J.-K. Huysmans. He looked inside. “A government functionary, eh? And he died in 1907 so he missed all the horrible parts of the twentieth century, which is most of it, but lived through La Belle Époque. Government functionary is a nice way of saying a flunky. There might be hope for me yet.”

  “How come?”

  “I feel inconsequential at the gallery. I have no control or say over the security, and they are rather worried about Captain Cook.”

  “He’s already dead.”

  “Yes. But they are worried about him being stolen.”

  “Why would anyone want to steal him?”
>
  “Beats me, but what do I know? I’m just a government functionary.”

  They drank their tea. Tsara was playing a Procol Harum album with a sailor on the cover. Alexander heard a celeste and listened carefully to the lyrics. He knew he would never forget this moment—it was both sweet and melancholy. Tsara was engrossed in her book about a government functionary. He was relieved they did not engage in any political talk. He looked down at her sandals sticking out of her long dress and remembered she didn’t shave her legs.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wiremu parked the rusted Holden by Mel’s house, sat in his car, windows down, and listened to bird songs and his radiator grumble. Mel’s BMW was not present, and he couldn’t hear Henry’s hi-fi system. The property extended to the reserve, an extinct volcano nearly seven hundred feet high, once a terraced Maori fortress that dominated the entire isthmus and allowed for unrestricted views over the Waitemata Harbor and Hauraki Gulf and, to the west, Manukau Harbor and the Tasman Sea. He noted how well maintained her house looked with its wooden slats painted a dark green and the windows and shutters a rusty grey, compared to his similar but rundown house in Hokianga. Her front garden was full of flowering shrubs and he remembered the grapefruit tree in the back.

  The owner of the security company had told Wiremu he would be the last to leave the art gallery after the opening and would make sure the front doors were left unlocked. He and his partner would sign off with the elderly night watchman, who would then be the only one left in the building. The watchman was very slow and always took the elevator to the top floor then worked his way down, checking all the rooms and turning off any lights before returning to the entrance again. He wouldn’t think it unusual that the front doors were left unlocked after a party. All Wiremu had to do was time his arrival at the gallery, take the painting and carry it down the stairs to the foyer. The frame was securely fastened to the wall but the canvas itself with some persuasion could be separated from the frame. Now Wiremu had to find a hiding place, and what better location than beneath Dr. Johnson’s house? He banged on the door and when he got no reply he walked to the rear and looked at the steps to the kitchen. Making sure no neighbor could see him he bent down and opened a small wooden door. He removed his leather jacket, took out a flashlight and squeezed inside.